


anti-anti-time suits, blue lights and noodle delivery services

by kkamagui



Series: Dongwoon's Noodle House [1]
Category: Tekken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Badly Written Scifi-Magic and Space-Time-Dimension Travel, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkamagui/pseuds/kkamagui
Summary: Before him is a vast blackness that coalesces into incomprensible shapes and colors. If he squints, he can make out the reflection of hundreds of different worlds barely an arm’s breadth away under the right circumstances. Others look like a similar cityscape, some are an angry red of wartime and fire. Others are horrifying, mind-rending nightmares. Some of the more distant ones vaguely resemble the neon cyber-tech he now knows his dimension’s movies have done complete injustice.Left at the next intersection, blips the navigation system.Or whenever you feel like it.Hwoarang focuses less on the unknowable tangle of time and space streams before him and more on the map on his helmet’s HUD. It is a long trip to the 223rd barrier.
Relationships: Hwoarang/Kazama Jin
Series: Dongwoon's Noodle House [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654246
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_Dongwoon’s Noodle House is located in Seoul, South Korea in the 55th dimension on the first and second planes, open 24/7, 20/5 and 32/9._

_Please proceed to the portal below for any local delivery orders. Our local phone number is 02-666-1204. Any catering requests can be directed to either our email at_ [ _dongwoons@dimensionoodles.kor_ ](mailto:dongwoons@dimensionalnoodles.ko) _or through our six-eyed astral message correspondent, Jeonryeo._

_Order items lost to any accidents outside of space-time inconsistency is not the responsibility of Dongwoon’s Noodle House. Any and all deliveries are made within the first two synodic hours upon receipt, guaranteed._

_Dongwoon’s Noodle House delivery jurisdiction falls under the Milky Way Galaxy First Plane Official Dimensions 55 through 183. Please accept our sincerest apologies if your dimension of residence is not within that range; we hope to expand our delivery jurisdiction as soon as possible._

_Our delivery range is the biggest of all delivery services offered in the Milky Way Galaxy First Plane Official Dimensions. We pride ourselves on our quick multi-dimensional delivery program and have a dedicated team of experienced time-space travelers for the highest quality service._

_Thank you for your patronage!_

_Press inquiries can be directed to our one-eyed astral correspondent, Mark, usually found by the first heaven’s chocolate fountain._

* * *

It is a Tuesday when Hwoarang’s boss decides to tell him that their delivery jurisdiction is set to increase 50 dimensions both ways, and that Hwoarang will be the first test driver. The news is dropped onto him right as the next order is set to finish. His boss is really good at that: ambushing him at the exact times he cannot refuse her orders. 

“What,” he says, feeling only a little like he has just been given an unwanted promotion. Hwoarang generally sticks to dimensions between 55 and 150. Mainly because the ones after 150 get a little too strange even for his tastes. Even then the range is not by choice; many of the other space-time drivers have either quit because of the nightmares they get from peculiar sights, or they might have gotten too injured from forces outside of their control. Or because they are bad at the job. Or maybe they died from being bad at the job.

Anyway.

“I’ll bump up your hourly pay by 3,000 won.”

Well, whatever. Pay is good.

“Fine,” he says.

“Three-piece jjam-jja-tan delivery to 223. Nav is already updated with new adds and dims. If you run into any problems just call Jeon.”

Hwoarang rolls his eyes as he loads the orders into the delivery box, checking and double checking the padding and locks. Wouldn’t do to have an entire order of food fall out and onto some unsuspecting person several dimensions down. Hwoarang would also hate to be lectured by Mark on the sanctity of preserving dimensional integrity when their business practices go against precisely that.

The ugly green moped has DONGWOON’S NOODLE HOUSE emblazoned in orange across the side. Much of the vinyl has peeled away so it reads more like NGWOO DLE HOUSE instead. He jams the key in and jiggles it a bit before the motor putters to life, its loud coughing drowned out by the rest of city noise.

Making sure that his bodysuit is intact, Hwoarang shoves the helmet onto his head then kicks off into the midday traffic. It goes without saying he is probably violating at least half a dozen traffic regulations as he weaves in between all the cars.

He sees a few big trucks setting for dimensional travel as well, lined up neatly in a queue into the central tunnel that serves as Seoul’s main launching pad. Most are fitted with the standard anti-anti-time measures, shimmering iridescent in the hot and humid summer light. There are lots of electronics and clothing brands in the staggered, bold list of companies waiting to get their interdimensional delivery quota filled.

Chill and shadow cover him as he moves into the tunnel, flicking the old switch on the moped for his probably-outdated-but-still-functional anti-anti-time field. He keeps his breathing level as he presses onward, keeping his mind somewhat detached from the physical reality but attached enough to stay grounded. Hwoarang’s vision flickers a little between red and violet that narrow into bright pinpoints. They streak by in lambent lines as the moped breaks past the 55th barrier and into a blissful unknown.

Hwoarang’s body feels a lot like it is being stretched and compressed at the same time. The back of his head prickles with the sensation of no longer being tethered to a dimension. Everything around him is noisy with unfathomable sensations and static that he has long since learned to ignore in favor of existing within himself. 

Before him is a vast blackness that coalesces into incomprensible shapes and colors. If he squints, he can make out the reflection of hundreds of different worlds barely an arm’s breadth away under the right circumstances. Others look like a similar cityscape, some are an angry red of wartime and fire. Others are horrifying, mind-rending nightmares. Some of the more distant ones vaguely resemble the neon cyber-tech he now knows his dimension’s movies have done complete injustice.

_Left at the next intersection_ , blips the navigation system. _Or whenever you feel like it_.

Hwoarang focuses less on the unknowable tangle of time and space streams before him and more on the map on his helmet’s HUD. It is a long trip to the 223rd barrier. 

* * *

Hwoarang arrives at the 223rd with little hassle, aside from trying not to fall asleep through the quiet nav commands interspersed through space silence. At first the receiving port had dismissed him as some strange space-time comet just passing through, only responding to his docking queries upon four attempts at contact.

“No,” he speaks into his receiver, hoping that the universal translator is doing its job well enough. The radio crackles wearily. “I have a food delivery. Here’s the receipt and recipient.”

He sends over the information via both electronic and astral correspondence. After a few minutes of idling, staring off into another unknown with a slightly different flavor, he receives the blue light and slips past the barrier.

Hwoarang immediately feels less like he is floating and about to detach from the plane of existence, and more like a person. Hwoarang then powers down the anti-anti-time measures. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the simultaneous brightness of lights and tunnel darkness. 

Fortunately, it seems this dimension is not too different from the 55th as many past the 100th tend to be. The recipient actually lives in someplace that resembles a city on Earth, for one, and the streets are designed in a relatively organized manner. Perhaps the best part of it is that much of the roads seem automated so he simply sits on his moped and watches the city move beneath and around him, like the backdrop of some amusement ride.

The delivery address sits on the corner of a downtown square. A high-rise black building that seems to absorb all and any light. Despite what Hwoarang assumes is the sunset glowing over the city, the building looks like a strange hole in the middle of an otherwise realistic tapestry. He steps into the quiet, strangely empty lobby where the floor seems to absorb the sound of his footsteps. The elevator to the 47th floor only takes half a standard minute, and he hardly feels himself moving at all.

The door number is unlisted. In the special instructions section, the address simply describes it as “the red door.” Hwoarang spins around the 47th floor for an embarrassing amount of time given his delivery experience, but he finally spots it at the end of a hallway.

“Excuse me,” he says to the door after ringing the bell. Someone, or something, screams from inside, sounding a lot like they are being murdered. He waits a minute, as per policy, then knocks again.

“Excuse me, customer,” he says again, rapping on the door. It makes a sound like splintering bone, which only mildly disgusts him. Just as he is about to make the final attempt, the door swings open. Surprisingly, a relatively human-looking person is staring at him. “Ah, would you be customer Kazama Jin?”

“...Yes,” Kazama says slowly, dripping blood and other unmentionables.

“I have your order of jjambong, jjajang and tansuyuk. Sign here please, for confirmation of receipt.”

Hwoarang unlocks the sealed delivery box after Kazama takes the electronic pad into hand and starts pulling out the items. Kazama peers over at him, noting how he inches away from the growing puddle of blood on the floor and wrinkles his nose at the smell.

“You shouldn’t have had to see any of that,” says Kazama, eyes bright as he watches Hwoarang shift uncomfortably with the hot orders in his arms, wishing desperately to pass them off already. He wipes at the blood dripping down his chin, and Hwoarang warily follows the motion with his eyes. “Forgive me.”

He then reaches out and places his bloody palm directly onto Hwoarang’s sweaty forehead. They stand there for a few moments in complete silence, which Hwoarang spends reeling from utter shock.

“Um,” says Hwoarang after finding his voice. He detaches from the warm hand by jerking his head back and blinking at the fingers with strange, shifting tattoos.

“Oh,” says Kazama. “You’re still awake.”

“Thank you for your patronage,” Hwoarang says, and shoves the orders right into Kazama’s arms. 

He also tries to snatch the signed electronic slip back from the customer’s hand simultaneously, which makes for a lot of awkward mutual juggling and more contact with other-dimension blood than he would really like.

“Please don’t order from us ever again,” he says sweetly, and shuts the door right in the customer’s face.

* * *

“You have blood on your face,” is the first thing his boss tells him when he gets back.

“Yes,” Hwoarang says, because it is true, and because it is not the worst state he has come back in. “Is the 50 dimension expansion really happening?”

“Here’s a bonus for not dying,” is the response his boss gives him, pressing a hefty amount of won into his hand. Hwoarang feels the weight of all the crisp bills, the papery wager of whether he would succeed in such a marked increase of space-time travel. “Some others have taken a liking to our business.”

Hwoarang makes a face, wiping at his forehead with a wet tissue.

“I know, I know,” his boss says. “I told them to go fuck themselves. Hyejoo was saying our sales would nearly double with the expansion. Our patent’s nearly approved, too.”

The last they had listened to the nine-eyed astral fox correspondent, Dongwoon’s had almost gone out of business. Granted, that had been before Hwoarang ever officially started full-time work as a delivery boy, but he still does not approve of the development for many reasons. 

As the first-ever inter-dimensional food delivery service in the apparent 595 registered and counting of the Milky Way Galaxy First Plane Official Dimensions, it would be an understatement to say they have gotten some attention. Hwoarang has seen his fair share of bright-eyed high school students looking to make a buck in between studies (impossible, if they were good students with good grades for a good future) and get some space-time experience. Always looks great on a resume.

The only requirement Dongwoon’s has is to be a master of space-time manipulation and travel. Hard to find, and many of the recruits cannot handle traveling more than 20 dimensional blocks at a time. Dongwoon’s does not have a magnificent worker-safety policy in place, which discourages most everyone with an inkling of common sense. 

This is the main reason Hwoarang, even with his remarkably limited skillset, has such good job security.

_[YOU MUST HAVE RECEIVED SIGNIFICANT TRAINING, OR ASCENDED TO THE SIXTH PLANE, AT LEAST,] Jeonryeo had said on Hwoarang’s first full time day. Hwoarang knows enough about keeping his mind warded that the astral correspondent is not able to peer into his mind freely._

_“Nah,” he had said, fingering the scar talisman on his forearm, and left it at that._

“That’s good,” Hwoarang says for the sake of saying something. “What happened to that new hire you were talking about? The one who could also commune astrally?”

His boss shakes her head. “No good. He failed the 10 dimensions benchmark.”

“At this rate, you’ll have to give me another raise.”

“Don’t push it,” his boss says, glaring at him.

“Yes ma’am,” Hwoarang says, clutching the wad of cash closer to his chest, just in case.

“Two-piece jjam-tan order for 180. Go.”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_DONGWOON’S NOODLE HOUSE INTERDIMENSIONAL DELIVERY CO._

_TERMS AND CONDITIONS (“TERMS”)_

_DIMENSION 55_

_Page 6/69_

_Privacy_

_Employees shall not cause undue risk of the employer’s privacy practices to ensure compliance with customer and employer safety. The employee shall abide by all standardized regulations of anti-anti-time, rift-preventive, dimensional-travel safety equipment. Sensitive information lost through improper usage of the aforementioned will be examined on a case-by-case basis, and may result in termination._

_Personal Injury_

_By signing this document, the employee understands and agrees that DONGWOON’S NOODLE HOUSE is not liable for any injury obtained during working hours, whether from misconduct, misuse of provided equipment or from the physical and otherwise existent limitations of the employee’s working body. Injuries may vary from mild to severe, from physical to spiritual._

_(see related: Temporary Death, Death, P̴͚̈u̷̺͖̺̭̦̪̽̆̀̈͘r̷̳̼͇̘̋̐͆͘g̴̨̛̦̦͚̮͈͎̓̍̈͋a̷͙͕̾̍ṫ̸̡̠̯̮̳̳̎͗̐͜͠ơ̷̢͓̩͔͈̈̀̓̚r̵̝̼͇͋͋̊͂̐i̶̦͙̳̥͍̾̚͝ą̴̧̘̗̪͈͙̓͗̌̈́͘͝l̵̢̲̈́ ̶̨͚̣̘̼̔̎͊͆̌͝S̴̡̛̛̥͎͇̦̐͜ù̸̜͕͍̺̳̰̑̾̓m̶͚͙̞̯̟̮̃̾̂̆̿m̵̢̪̝̬̭͉̓͘o̷̘̝͕͔̤̰͑̕n̶̖̈́͝͠͝s̷̠̟̜̰̈̍̈̎)_

* * *

Hwoarang is in the middle of rushing through his second bowl of noodles on lunch break when his manager comes to find him in the cramped break room. Over the sound of his slurping, the kitchen noise in the background and overworked, dissonant fans chugging away in the humid summer heat, he cannot hear what she says.

“What?” he says around a mouthful. Sauce drips from the corner of his mouth, which he licks up, very unattractively.

His manager switches the fans off. Hwoarang is immediately beset with intense loathing for her and the heat that makes it feel like his uniform is sticking to his skin.

“Keep your shirt on, please,” his boss says in a tone that brokers no argument. Hwoarang sets his bowl down and sits up as she makes her way over, scrolling through something on her holopad. “You wouldn’t happen to have exchanged numbers or anything with someone you delivered to, right, Hwoarang? Like the company policies you read before signing warned directly against?” Her voice is gentle and sweet, but Hwoarang knows this is the voice she reserves strictly for customers and also right before unleashing her wrath.

Hwoarang thinks about what he should say, because he really does not have a clue what she’s talking about.

What comes out of his mouth instead, is: “You think I know how to read?”

“Hwoarang,” his manager says, smiling so brightly it’s like she is baring her teeth. “We’re talking about a serious breach in company security here. Dimension-breaking risks. If you _did_ do anything of the sort, I wouldn’t try to hide it from anyone, much less me.”

“Look,” he says, wiping at his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even read the policies packet you sent home with me.”

With a great sigh, his boss leans against the table. Hwoarang slides his bowl just a smidgen closer to him, away from her rear. She shoots him a glare. “Someone has _traced_ you here.”

That really doesn’t mean anything to Hwoarang. He only knows how to travel between space and dimensions; he isn’t a _scholar_ on all things inter and meta and whatever-dimensional. With a sniff, he picks up his chopsticks and starts eating again. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

His manager passes him the holopad. At first glance, the screen of an email inbox and an empty message is unassuming, but there are layers of communication built into it not meant for the usual audio-visual consumption. He can feel Jeonryo from a grand spiritual distance translating, somewhat, the sinister energy reaching toward something.

The screen cracks in Hwoarang’s hand.

A few moments of frenzied, panicked juggling pass as Hwoarang flails, his manager flails, and both of them attempt to catch the holopad while flailing about trying not to smack each other.

With a resigned _thunk,_ the holopad lands in the bowl of Hwoarang’s unfinished noodles.

He releases a deep breath, prodding the object with his chopsticks. It had been difficult to decipher what exactly Jeonryo had attempted to translate, given that whatever had been behind hadn’t been much more than a vague _feeling_. Now, though, Hwoarang feels distinctly like he is being watched. As though some great hunger is waiting to devour him whole.

“Ah,” he says.

“You’re coming in the next few days to help me go through all the correspondences for the past few months, on top of your delivery shifts,” his boss says, scowling. “If you’re lucky, you won’t have any paperwork.”

* * *

Downtown Sinchon is loud at night, both from noise and color. Hwoarang watches the No. 2 light rail pass overhead, leaving trails of glowing green. He then turns his head to the right, looking down from a third floor rooftop balcony, precariously close to the edge. One leg and most of an ass cheek hang over the ledge. He had left work early tonight, solely off the basis of feeling _watched_. And now, late into the night, sleep eludes him. He keeps scratching at his head, feeling as though there is blood drying on his skin.

“You sure you’re not coming down with a cold?” his coworker had asked him, “or some other sickness? I saw on the news the other day there was an outbreak of an extraterrestrial flu strain in Cheonan or something.”

Hwoarang, who usually does his best to ignore the news, or at least filter out whatever nonsense politicians like to talk circles around, had asked, “There’s a Martian flu?”

“Boss has a few trainees lined up for the next few days, I think. And a few employees from other… places,” his coworker had continued, nose-deep into the yellowed, oil-stained paper next to the register. And a bit more conspiratorially, “In case you need to lie low. Or if you’re sick.”

Right. He decides to take a month off, just in case. He has enough cash (earned _legally, alright?_ ) squirreled away and a few hiding spots. Hwoarang tells himself he is being paranoid and that dropping off the surface for a month is not necessarily a good look for his job security.

But, well. He has good job security in this dimension, at least. He decides to take the risk.

Hwoarang has been mostly a normal, law-abiding citizen for some time now, but old habits are hard to get rid of. After removing the SIM card from his phone, he had turned it off and stuffed it deep into his closet before going out to buy a burner. The small bag stuffed full of cash, miscellaneous IDs and a couple pocket knives cushions his head as he overlooks the district.

In the end, there hadn’t been anything in any of the official correspondences to indicate Hwoarang had inadvertently broken any of the rules. Which, honestly, had been surprising even to himself. 

And even more surprisingly, his habit of ignoring traffic rules is _not_ a violation either.

With the sharp increase in the range of their travels, it could be anything from the one-in-a-million chance of their anti-anti-time and miscellaneous security measures failing, all the way to Hwoarang being unlucky enough to get cursed by some random jjajangmyun-craving entity.

Well, he has been through worse.

He rolls back over to the relative safety of the roof. Various towels and clothes hanging from drying lines brush over his arms as he continues to roll toward the door. Eventually Hwoarang stands up, patting away debris and rubbing over the denim where a line most certainly imprinted onto his ass from the ledge. He breezes through the empty apartment, doing another sweep to make sure the supposed safehouse really doesn’t have any bugs before locking the door firmly behind him.

Hwoarang typically visits the local columbarium often, and he has already been this week; he still finds himself turning into the coolly lit, smooth-surfaced and sharp-cornered building again. The polished granite gleams back at him, interspersed by the distorted reflections of his face off the tempered glass displays.

The silence is palpable. Hwoarang feels his heartbeat in his throat as he steps quietly through the rows, slowing only when he reaches his master’s name.

Various urns nearby are artfully decorated, gilded, surrounded by keepsakes. The urn containing Baek Doosan’s ashes is plain and black, but glistens with the making of expensive, rich clay. Hwoarang had worked an honest newspaper delivery job for it. Baek’s stern, kind portrait smiles back at him. Next to it is Hwoarang’s first ever gold medal and Baek’s old dobok.

He bows.

“Hey, father,” he says quietly. His voice is hoarse all of a sudden. Hwoarang blinks rapidly to clear his eyes and sniffs. “I kinda messed up,” he says. “And I’ll probably have to do all the things you tell me not to. Sorry.”

He resists the urge to scratch at his temple again. It still feels like there is blood dripping down his face for some awful reason. It feels distinctly different from sweat. Much hotter, stickier, like liquid iron melting down his cheek. “I might be a while. Don’t be mad if I don’t show up next week, or after.” Hwoarang’s body is starting to ache from how long he has been bowing, but he stays down. “I’ll be back soon, probably. I promise to drink my ginger tea.”

A few minutes, maybe more, pass in silence. Hwoarang’s back hurts and his toes are starting to feel cold, but he does not stand up straight until he hears distant footsteps. He lights a stick of incense by the front. Then after a pause, places another. The smoke swirls into nebulous loops. He looks back in the direction of Baek’s urn, then turns and slides past the other people making their way in.

Hwoarang descends, for the first time in years, to the underground. 

“Yooo, is that you, ‘Rang?” Yuwon calls, when the door is shut behind Hwoarang. “It’s been so _long_ , brother. No tails on you? Am I goin’ to have cops here soon or-”

“Quiet down,” Hwoarang says. “I wasn’t followed. But someone might overhear if you don’t shut your damn mouth.”

Yuwon grins lazily, crooked teeth gleaming white in the drab lighting of the pawn shop. They raise their hands placatingly, waggling fingers glowing cyan-yellow-indigo with the implants that make the outlines of their bones shine through skin. They have a gun tucked casually into the band of their high-waisted pants, not even bothering to hide the metallic gleam. “Almost didn’t recognize you with that normal hair of yours. You should dye it red again. Good look on you.”

“Are you going to keep talking? Should I take my business elsewhere, to Hyuk’s, maybe?”

Yuwon shuts up, sobering immediately.

“I’m serious about it being a while, though,” Yuwon says, beckoning Hwoarang to come around the counter. “Your face isn’t exactly what most would call a friendly one down here.”

“You have strings,” Hwoarang says. “Pull them.”

“That’s going to be a steep price, even for you.”

Discreetly, Hwoarang takes a thick roll of bills and brandishes it in front of Yuwon’s face to waft the smell around. He then reaches down for their hand and pulls it up, kisses it, then presses the money in to let them feel the weight of it. “Good enough?”

Yuwon breaks into a splendid smile. “Good doing business again with you, brother.”

After a good hour of explaining to Yuwon that _no_ , he is not running from the cops, (and _no,_ he is not looking for another fake ID. _No,_ he is not trying to hire a hitman; he’d rather do that himself.) Hwoarang finally manages to get across what he thinks is a passable explanation for something somewhat unexplainable. 

“So you’re saying,” Yuwon says after a long pause, which is impressive for them, “that you think some weird supernatural entity that may not even exist is haunting you? Stalking you? Oh, oh-oh, I know, like that movie from what’s-it starring Yoon Dongwoon?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve made it clear that what is supernatural here is very much the norm in other dimensions. And that’s the CEO of a company, not an actor.”

“Right, right-right-right,” Yuwon waves a hand. “So you’re talking occult-ish stuff here. Spiritual. Maybe even devils and demons and all that. Oooh, sounds like you’re getting into some good heresy to me.”

Hwoarang gives them a strange, concerned look. “Did you get recruited into another cult again?”

“Hey! I learned my lesson.”

“If you say so.” Hwoarang shoves his hands into his pockets, sighing loudly. “Any specialist in related areas would help, but it’s better if they know about that weird dimensions science nonsense. Oh also, do you know a good mechanic?”

Yuwon looks up from counting the bills, body splayed all over the scratched faux leather couch. “Depends on how good you want ‘em.”

“Dimensional travel.”

Gleefully, Yuwon goes back to counting the bills and laughs. “I am making _so_ much money tonight.”

* * *

After a very long day of not working, going stir-crazy, and in generally being tortuously bored throughout the next day, Hwoarang finally receives a contact.

“She’s from Japan,” Yuwon says over the counter, sliding over a card with hastily scribbled details. “Looks a bit young, honestly, but that’s not my business. She’s a self-acclaimed exorcist and spiritual expert or whatnot.”

“How the hell am I getting to Japan.”

“Have fun swimming,” says Yuwon. At Hwoarang’s glare, they laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! She’s here, staying around Mapo or something. Kinda closeby.”

“Good. What about the mechanic?”

“Your lack of tact hasn’t changed at all,” Yuwon says. “Now, I’m not saying to break the law, but I’m saying you should break the law and-”

“Yuwon,” Hwoarang says.

Their smile drops. “Fine, okay, it’s almost like I stole your fried chicken or something. Here.” They pass over a phone, most definitely a burner, that has the keypad scratched out completely. “You’ll get a call within the next 48 hours. I mentioned all the specs you need—which, by the way, I gave you a _huge_ discount for—so don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Give me a gun, too,” Hwoarang says, and dumps another packet of fifty-thousands onto the counter. “And don’t be stingy about the ammunition.”

“Ah, I really did miss doing business with you, ‘Rang,” Yuwon sighs. “You’re staying for good, right?”

Hwoarang tests the give of the trigger, flicks the safety off and on again. He tucks it firmly into his waistband, where the gunmetal sears a cold line into his hip beneath his jacket. “Not a chance.”

* * *

As it turns out, finding Asuka is a lot less difficult than Hwoarang had imagined. In fact, he finds her in the middle of a fighting ring that looks much too obvious to be ignored, unless the police have been bribed. This is not gang territory, at least, not anymore or that he knows of. Not that he would know about that.

He watches, fidgeting as the familiar roar of blood courses through his body while watching the fight. The girl has a clean, ruthless style that hinges almost entirely on proper form and punishing reversals. She definitely looks a bit young, but he had dropped out of high school all those years back and got his ink done pretty young, so maybe he isn’t in a position to judge. He has a grudging respect for her by the time the rounds have finished, carefully leaning against a wall a few paces away.

She seems to be wrapping up the show, so he puts on the old saunter, shoulders loose but broad. Asuka’s eyes flit over him momentarily before catching on the ink showing at his collarbones. She waves off the others hovering nearby, murmuring something that makes them nod in assent.

“Asuka?” he tries, keeping his posture nonchalant.

“You’re that ‘Rang dude,” she says. “The one who’s scared of being haunted by a ghost.”

“What, no,” he starts, but Asuka grabs his wrist and drags him bodily in some direction. “That’s not exactly-”

“Luckily for you, I am an _expert_ in solving problems. Don’t worry, I can chase off that ghost for you, no problem.”

In fear of attracting too much attention by struggling and making his plight known to the general public, Hwoarang tries to keep up while trying not to step on the backs of Asuka’s shoes. The grip she has around his wrist is strong and careless, and she winds through various parts of the area in what Hwoarang recognizes as a terrible loop before she ushers him into a temporary stay.

After removing his shoes, Hwoarang hovers awkwardly by the dining table. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to put some order to the strands loosened from their ponytail as he catches his breath. “Can I, uh.”

“Wait!” says Asuka and moves in close, patting down Hwoarang’s body with surprising speed and force. He stands frozen with his arms spread wide, feeling more and more awkward by the second. The gun, of course, does not go unnoticed. She sets it under a cushion and sits on it. “I’m holding onto this for now, mister. I should turn you into the police.”

“You were literally in a fighting ring!” he accuses.

“I was _breaking up_ a fight, thank you,” Asuka retorts. She pauses, staring up at him with a peculiar expression. After a while, she hums and says, “I’m Asuka, by the way.”

Hwoarang holds his tongue and instead lets out a great sigh. He decides to sit without asking, since he has been so suddenly and rudely accosted of his gun after being forced to run several kilometers around town for no reason he can understand. “Yeah, okay. I’m Hwoarang. I can explain my situation a bit better.”

“It’s not a ghost,” Asuka says very quickly. Before Hwoarang can respond, she taps at her temple. “Are you getting any headaches?”

“Uh, no,” Hwoarang says, feeling self conscious. Now that he is thinking about it, the itch at his temple is back again. He scratches at it. “No, why?”

“You smell like,” Asuka says, then hums rather than finishing her sentence. She reaches out with both hands, setting them on each side of his face. She squishes his cheeks together and turns his head this way and that, staring at something above his eyeline. Her hands are warm and calloused. For some reason, he gets the vague feeling that she has been doing nothing but testing him this entire time.

“Excuse me,” he says rather eloquently.

“Do you feel like you’re being watched?” Asuka continues conversationally, hands still squishing his cheeks.

“Other than by you? Yes,” he says. “Uh, can you let me go?”

Asuka does so. She sits back down, arms crossed as she frowns at Hwoarang. “You get around a lot. No, _no,_ not like that.” She adds after Hwoarang makes a face. “I mean, you travel a lot.”

“Well, yeah. It comes with my job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Company secret,” he says immediately. His boss had drilled at least a few pages of the terms and conditions into his brain. “But you should already know it has to do with space-time travel.”

Asuka makes a noise that sounds vaguely like an impression of a detective on a TV show saying, _“Hm, yes, I see!”_

Eventually, she says, “I don’t think it’s a complete rift. Maybe half of one, or something similar. But you definitely tore something while you were working. Not in the physical sense, though.” She stands suddenly. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure,” he says faintly. Asuka bounds off to the other side of the room, yanking open the small fridge. She pulls out two bottles of Pocari, handing one to him as she sits back down. “Alright, so. What does having a rift or whatever mean? How did I get it?”

“Hard to be sure because the form of it isn’t very clear,” Asuka says. “It’s likely a tear that resulted from some misfired spell. No one’s tried to cast anything on you recently, have they?”

Hwoarang, mid-swallow, makes a valiant effort to not cough his drink everywhere, but fails. Miserably. By the time he has recovered, Asuka is quite understandably disgusted. He starts cleaning the mess with the paper towels she flings at him. His chest burns. “It’s been a few weeks, but there was someone who tried to erase my memories. I think. He got blood all over me too. I’m not sure if it was his or, uh, his victim’s.”

He takes Asuka’s silence and occasional thoughtful noise as her thinking about the problem, so he tries to focus on cleaning up. When he looks up, knees aching from kneeling on the wood floor, Asuka is staring right at him, eyes shining.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Well, the good news is that you’re not cursed!” Asuka says brightly. “That bad news is that you’re probably forever linked to the person who tried that on you.”

“Fantastic,” he says. 

“Do you know the reason the spell failed?” Asuka asks.

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” Hwoarang says, all while remembering the mental training Baek has put him through. His master had been the one with spiritual expertise, and while his knowledge had helped Hwoarang grow to be resilient almost to a fault, Hwoarang himself only knows that things can happen, not _how_ they do, or why. “Is there, I don’t know, a way to _not_ be tied to this person for all eternity?”

Asuka thinks for another moment. “Nope. Maybe killing them would help?”

Hwoarang swipes at the nervous sweat on his forehead, trying to ignore the imaginary trickle of blood down his face. Despite the ridiculous fiasco the night has been, at least he has a better idea of what is happening.

He thanks Asuka, making sure to retrieve his gun, then wanders around the city again. It’s probably illegal to hack into his employer’s database to extract very specific and sensitive customer information, right?

Right. 

* * *

Hwoarang likes to think he is an expert in talking his way out of trouble, sometimes, and fighting his way out when that does not work. When it comes to bluffing his way out of things, which he hasn’t had to do to avoid serious consequences in a long time, Yuwon claims it should be like riding a bike.

Except the bike he is currently riding is a very expensive cross-dimensional porter with better anti-anti-time and anti-what’s-it measures than he has ever _seen_ on a vehicle. The bike itself is a humble shade of gray with a simple and sleek silhouette. 

Dressed in the accompanying protective suit, Hwoarang feels a lot like someone trying on clothes five times their normal pay grade. To any passersby, he would appear as a courier on a relatively mid-end transport, glimmering with a sheen of science-y nonsense as the rest of the trucks and semis behind him are.

One of his many fake IDs checks out, and the gatekeeper looks over the screenwork with little more than a bored glance.

“Park Daehyung, state your reason for inter-dimensional travel,” they say in an uninterested tone.

“Private residential delivery. Express,” Hwoarang says, voice echoing in his helmet. He feels his warm breath kick back in through the rebreather, smelling simultaneously stale and sterile. 

“Food delivery I see,” says the gatekeeper and checks something off before waving Hwoarang’s form off the screen. “Mind the slipstreams. Bad dust storms after 10 dimensions, if you’re going that far.”

He thanks them before moving past, staring up at the massive tunnel with INCHEON-MUUIDO LAUNCHING STATION blazoned in bold characters around the curve. Below it follow Chinese, Thai and Arabic characters, all carved into the cement. 

Similarly to the one in Seoul central, the lights have the odd red-violet tint that confuses the hell out of his eyes when he tries to comprehend what color it is. Hwoarang shakes his head to clear any other thoughts, then focuses on his breathing. In, out. Swell and ebb, like the tides, like the unstopping motion and flow of the universe.

His head tingles as his existence slowly untethers itself from the 55th dimension, drifting a bit before condensing more firmly around his physical form. The swirling, un/colorful unknown gapes wide open before him, inviting him with a cage of starred teeth.

Hwoarang hardly feels the rumble of the motorbike beneath him as he sinks into the web of time and space.

_Keep straight for the next whatever interval_ , the navigation says helpfully. _And when it feels right, follow the left bend.  
_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> must my scifi and urban fantasy blend be cohesive enough to read like actual theory? is it not enough to badly write scifi, make it gay and sit there in my hawai'ian shirt, deranged?


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

The main danger of traveling such great dimensional distances is the risk of death, and of course, temporary death. Among other things that Hwoarang doesn’t think the human brain is capable of imagining.

Strange thing about humans is that they aren’t even a drop of water in the ocean. They’re more like a drop in an ocean that is also just a drop in another ocean, that is _also_ just a drop of a drop in another ocean. With the ways all the known and unknown universal laws work and do not, people just have a hard time holding onto the idea of self in the face of something so incomprehensibly, unfathomably _whole._

And oftentimes, that sort of death is painless and immensely, saddeningly rapturous. Governments everywhere have since put multiple galaxy’s worth of regulations in place to prevent their peoples from chasing the theoretical light at the end of the tunnel. Moths to the flame and all that.

The point is: Hwoarang sometimes passes by the tiniest shards of the dead as he travels. They usually are not much more than a simple feeling. A gust of wind as a ground train pulls away from the station; the electric hum of an escalator taking him up department store levels; thick, humid thunderstorms sweeping into and through the chill in his skin; sharp pain as his hands tear over rusted fences and splinters.

There are the temporary dead, too. Though, they are a bit more substantial than a feeling, like a memory. 

Hwoarang is not an expert by any means, but there are people who retrieve temporary dead from their stasis for a living. Somehow, rather than slicing through the folds of existence, they can reach into the darkest corners of nonexistence and call the dead back. Suddenly the memory becomes two, then an emotion, and then an overwhelming, crushing burden of consciousness and existence.

Baek had done that for him a couple times; fished him up and out of the unknown with fingers colder than unlife itself. 

Anyway. Hwoarang does his best to forget about his mistakes. He does not, however, remember why he is thinking about this in the first place. 

He shakes his head, muttering at himself to concentrate, and presses on through to the—oh, _ohhh_ , right. The light at the end of the tunnel that he has been staring at for however many minutes, where the 223rd sits just past the harsh fluorescent lighting, concrete and steel.

The 223rd dimension is just as he remembers it. Earth-like and not, with the city and its inhabitants existing at a non-slant and color that feels just a tad off. Upon the horizon is a steady sunset that sort of looks like mauve. Hwoarang gets the distinct feeling that this place is constantly in a state of sunset, though.

Splitting the otherwise chrome-bright reflections of the city, towers the same light-swallowing, hole-cut-out-of-a-picture building. He passes by vague shapes of the living here, unintelligible to the human eye. Hwoarang can sense that they are just the typical citizens, of a typical interdimensional-treatise participating society. What he assumes are TV displays scattered around the buildings are shaped and seem to function a little more like mirrors. 

Hwoarang cannot actually see what is on the screens; it looks all like static. The phenomena has something to do with his brain not being wired to comprehend the vast and various levels of complicated other-dimensional objects. At least, not in a way that doesn’t depend on his existing perceptions and preconceptions of how things are in _his_ world.

He moves on through the empty lobby and its carpet that spills through the hallways like a cresting tide of grey storm clouds. The elevator takes him up to the 47th floor and he feels an odd sense of familiarity and routine.

All the doors are pitch black. 

Confused, Hwoarang backtracks to the elevator to check he _is_ on the 47th floor. Not the previous floor, the 35th, nor the next floor, the 60th.

He checks twice more, walking feverishly down the halls with a desperation reserved for those seeking purpose. There is nary a hint of the red door that had been mentioned specifically in the delivery notes the last time. He reaches the end of a hallway. With a heavy sigh, he sets down the delivery box he’d brought for bribing purposes and leans against the wall.

And stumbles as a doorway appears around him, bright as blood. There is something jammed behind it, but the door is ajar enough Hwoarang is able to force his way inside after a moment or two of bewildered staring.

“Hello?” he calls out. It’s dark. He fumbles around, slapping the walls for anything that feels remotely like a lightswitch. He doesn’t find one in the end, but the whole of the ceiling brightens, a slate of cold glow that casts the small studio apartment in sharp divisions of light and dark. 

Hwoarang blinks, and there is a mangled corpse on the ground, still steaming, blood pooled around. He blinks again, and it is gone.

He bends down to tap at the smooth, textureless floor, just to check. His temple is starting to itch again.

“Hello?” he calls out again. The translator piece clipped to his jacket lights up blue, flickering with the cadence of his voice. He can’t hear what it is broadcasting, but his gut tells him the language spoken in this place might not be suited for human ears. “Kazama Jin? Are you here?”

The space is small enough he can plainly see there is no one in the studio but him. The furniture is almost crude in how simple it is, appearing like cut-out shapes against the equally textureless background. He has to touch a table and desk just to make sure they are real. Still, it feels like there are eyes on him.

Hell, Hwoarang hadn’t prepared a plan in the event dear, esteemed customer Kazama Jin is not at home and ready to answer all his questions. He is not a patient man, either, and he is hungry. So, as any other reasonable delivery driver off the clock who has had his plans thwarted would do, Hwoarang decides to sit down and eat the food himself.

He is on his third piece of fried chicken when a dark and oppressive presence manifests not an arm’s length away from him. He stares, mid-chew, at the terrifying tear in reality that sparks violet and violently, peeling outward with a sound like shearing metal. A clawed hand reaches out, grips at the edge. Up pops a dark-haired head and a broad-shouldered body, clambering out from a dimensional rift as though it were an ordinary door.

Kazama Jin drops the body he had pulled out of the portal with him and tosses it to the side with alarming casualness. As quietly as he can, Hwoarang tries to continue chewing on his chicken. He almost gets away with chewing through another piece before Kazama turns around to see a stranger in his home.

They both blink at each other. Kazama seems to go through a dozen different emotions as he tries to verify that Hwoarang is, in fact, real, and not some strange apparition.

The speed at which Kazama rushes at him, hands outstretched, is kind of terrifying, but Hwoarang is prepared for it. He dive-rolls immediately to the side, reaching for the gun digging into his stomach. Nails scrape against his neck as he barely evades the grab, and he reacts mindlessly to another flurry of movements before he has Kazama under him in half-guard. One his hands tightens around Hwoarang’s wrist, nearly crushing it.

He shoves the muzzle of the gun right under Kazama’s jaw, directly into the soft, sensitive flesh behind his chin. Kazama bares his teeth, sharp canines glinting. His eyes are brighter than flares, making Hwoarang feel somewhat like an animal in headlights. 

“Do you mind?” he says, resuming chewing his mouthful. The cobalt of his translator lights up again, its reflection scattered across the polished surface of his gun. The shards of light scatter across Kazama’s body and the floor, like a hologram of shattered glass. “I’d prefer to keep my body intact, thank you in advance.”

Kazama seems ready to try and buck him off again before he pauses, reconsidering. His luminous eyes flicker over Hwoarang’s face and body. Hwoarang lets him have a good look as he swallows the last of the chicken and wipes at his mouth with the shoulder of his shooting hand.

“You broke in,” Kazama says, his voice surprisingly level for someone who has a gun pointed at his head. “Who are you?” Although his grip on Hwoarang’s wrist is no longer crushing, the intent is still there.

“Can we talk after I finish eating?” Hwoarang says. He sticks the gun back under his waistband, keeping his hand loose around the grip. “I bought fried chicken.” Kazama relaxes marginally under him, enough that Hwoarang can hoist himself off Kazama’s stomach and clamber back onto his feet. As he sits back down to resume his meal, Kazama stands on the spot he’d been threatened, fingers clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do.

“You’re the delivery person from last time,” he says unsurely, sounding almost apologetic.

Hwoarang waves him over wordlessly, mouth already full with another boneless chicken wing. He gestures at the assortment of food that had thankfully remained untouched throughout their little scuffle and hopes Kazama gets the hint.

He does. Hwoarang watches him take the first bite of chicken and grins, then ignores the ensuing silence of their awkwardly shared meal.

Kazama stares at him for a good few minutes after all of the fried chicken is gone. He seems to be the quiet brooding type. The type to go through tens of thousands of thoughts an hour, say one terse sentence, then expect everyone else to know what is going on in his head.

Hwoarang clears his throat.

“Just so you know,” he says, “Despite all appearances, I’m not here to kill you. Even with the fact that that solution _was_ recommended to me. I’m here on very important business.”

Kazama considers him. His eyes have dimmed to an empty sort of black that reflects no light, like the building they’re in right now. Hwoarang gets a discomforting sense that a void is staring back at him when he looks into those fathomless depths.

Hwoarang has a lot of questions, like how it’s possible for Kazama to appear and sound so human in a dimension an entire universe away from Hwoarang’s home. He would also really like to ask why Kazama had thought it appropriate to wipe his memories without permission. Instead, he reigns in his impatience and waits for the mysterious stranger to speak.

“Go on,” Kazama finally says. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed and legs spread arrogantly. This is fine, Hwoarang can do the same. He mimics the pose.

“I’m from the 55th dimension, where you ordered noodles some time back. Way back.” He makes a vague gesture to the space behind him, as though that can capture the sheer distance between here and home. “Someone has told me I’m carrying around some sort of dimensional tear. Half of one, I don’t know. And _you’re_ the one who caused it.”

Exhaling deeply, Kazama frowns. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“It’s still your fault, asshole,” Hwoarang says, rubbing at his temple. “My job is at stake. I want you to fix it.”

“How much do you know about interdimensional entities?” Kazama asks. He sets his hands down on the table, palms face downward. He stretches his fingers, then relaxes them. Hwoarang notes the varying scars beneath the shifting tattoos over his skin and knuckles. They look mesmerizing, like an inverted color view of sunlight filtering in through the ocean’s surface. “This isn’t exactly an issue I’ve run into before, and I likely won’t know how to resolve it on my own.”

“I know absolutely nothing,” Hwoarang says in his most helpful customer service voice.

“Not even that you’re technically dead?” Kazama queries. 

“That is _confidential_ information,” Hwoarang says. He scowls, fiddling with the thin cardboard of the takeout box. “I’m alive enough. I’m here. _You_ are not answering my question.”

“How did you even find out about what happened?”

“My manager,” Hwoarang grouses. “She noticed some weird sort of trace that followed me back. I’m assuming it was you, with all your creepy nonsense.”

Kazama leans in a bit, his interest clear. “From my understanding, the people where you come from wouldn’t be able to notice that normally.”

“My job isn’t exactly _normal_ ,” Hwoarang says. “My manager isn’t from my dimension. People don’t even know what her name is.” He tries to pull his wallet from his pocket, leaning his hips one way and his shoulders the other as he frees it from his confines. He has his manager’s business card on him, and though he cannot personally parse anything that is written on it, maybe Kazama can.

“Uh, I don’t know how to say it, but here,” Hwoarang says, showing the fiberglass card to Kazama. To him, it only looks like a flickering, glitching mess full of static noise and neon color. “I don’t even think it’s possible for any person to say that.”

“�̴̛͔̪̹͚̲̘́̿̈͐͒̔͜͜�̸͎̖̙͈̯̮͕̰̾̎�̴̧͖̜̼͍̬̙̑͊͌̽̉͒̒̈́̏̿͐�̸̛̙͍̖̱͕̳͍̺̌͂̆̄̆͝͠�̶̨̡͉͕̹̆͌̀͐�̴̢̨̝̞̙͕̑͒̏̽̓͛͝,” says Kazama. 

Hwoarang stares at him. “How did you do that? How are you doing that?”

“You just say it, like this,” Kazama says again, enunciating in a way he surely thinks is very clear. “�̴̛͔̪̹͚̲̘́̿̈͐͒̔͜͜�̸͎̖̙͈̯̮͕̰̾̎�̴̧͖̜̼͍̬̙̑͊͌̽̉͒̒̈́̏̿͐�̸̛̙͍̖̱͕̳͍̺̌͂̆̄̆͝͠�̶̨̡͉͕̹̆͌̀͐�̴̢̨̝̞̙͕̑͒̏̽̓͛͝.”

Hwoarang opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. A beat later, he says, “Humans can’t do that.”

“Perhaps not from your dimension,” Kazama says coolly. “In any case, I don’t believe the tear is at risk of getting any bigger. For now.” He gives Hwoarang another long stare, brow furrowing. 

“Somehow that’s not very convincing,” Hwoarang says, looking over to the dead body cooling on the other side of the room. There isn’t a large amount of blood, but the dark red is a violent splash of color in the otherwise empty space.

Kazama sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wait outside in the hall while I clean up, would you?” he asks, and when he looks up, his eyes are two blinding points again. Liquid ebony drips from his fingers and drowns the floor in black. The smoky tendrils warping all around the surface of his skin swallow the little light there is and leave him looking like a hole in the universe. “I’ll be only a moment.”

* * *

The first thing Kazama tells Hwoarang once he comes out to the hallway is that it isn’t safe for him to stay in the current dimension. Something about instability in a continuum, some paracausality jargon, and the nature of Hwoarang needing to preserve his own dimensional integrity. He says all of this with blood dripping down his hands. When he closes the door behind him, the red varnish vanishes into thin air. Hwoarang finds himself blinking at an empty black wall while Kazama wipes the blood on his pants.

“How did you get here?” Kazama says.

“I took a bike. Interdimensional travel specs and all that.” He fixes Kazama with a flat stare. “Don’t tell me you can just warp to wherever we need to go, because that bike was expensive and I am _not_ leaving it behind.”

Kazama beckons Hwoarang to follow, and they walk in sync to the lobby. “I can, actually,” he says. “But we can also take your bike.” He waits for Hwoarang to lead the way to where he has parked it before raising his hand and pressing warm fingers to Hwoarang’s forehead. His other hand reaches down to a handle of the bike, where the black tendrils on his skin seem almost to crawl onto the rubber. Then he asks Hwoarang to describe a typical scene and imagine it as clearly as he can.

Hwoarang closes his eyes and thinks about the bright neons at night and the quieter, narrow streets that lead to a bustling nexus. It’s monsoon season, so there might be large puddles of rain leftover from the past day or so around. Younger students in uniform walking and waiting for buses; the light rails leaving behind light residue in a mimicry of auroras; family-owned seafood shops wrenching open the grates to reveal the freshest they have to offer.

And suddenly he finds himself suddenly back in the middle of Sinchon, trying to recover from the near-instant journey through aeons. His brain feels like it has been replaced with a sieve and an endless torrent of hot sand wearing away at his sense of self. It’s difficult to keep his thoughts together. An intense chill passes over his whole being, and he scratches deep lines into his arms to try and ground himself.

“Impressive,” Kazama says. His gaze dims from its photon-bright intensity, and the black tattoos swirling around his body fade as well, leaving his skin bare. “I’d expected you to lose yourself the instant we started crossing over.”

Hwoarang hisses at him past the sparking pain, though it is starting to ebb away. He isn’t afraid of dying, but he hates being tested. “Try that again and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Kazama ignores him and looks around him instead. The air is muggy but somewhat cool, and the skies are dark but on the verge of brightening into something warmer. It’s just before dawn, then. Hwoarang doesn’t know how long it has been since he left, but it cannot have been too long. “This place is strange,” he says.

“No, it’s quite normal,” Hwoarang sighs. He really wants to take a shower.

They’re not far from the location he is currently using as a hideaway, so he covers the bike on the side of a street and guides Kazama over. He almost doesn’t bother with checking to make sure there are no prying eyes around, but does so just in case. There are only a few early morning joggers and sleepy dog-walkers about. He ushers Kazama up the stairs and inside, then sags against the door.

“What do you know about the company you work for?” Kazama asks, striking up conversation as he peers out the window blinds. He runs his fingers over the walls, the furniture. Hwoarang gets the distinct feeling Kazama has traveled to so many different times and places, and that his curiosity is an act. 

“They give me my paycheck,” Hwoarang says. He lays on his back, limbs spread out. “For some reason we’re the first-ever interdimensional food delivery service, but I know that we’re not the only ones anymore.”

Kazama taps at his own collar, then his ear; the same locations Hwoarang has his translator pieces clipped on. An unknown sort of tension disappears from his shoulders as he observes Hwoarang. “You don’t need the universal translator for me, by the way. You and I can understand each other well enough.”

Hwoarang grunts from his prone position on the floor. His eyelids feel heavy. Now that all the adrenaline and shock has worn off, his entire body feels lethargic.

“Hey, okay, so,” Hwoarang says drowsily. “Do you know what sleep is?”

“Are you asking me if I sleep?”

“No, and I really don’t expect you to be capable of it.” Hwoarang decides then that he will take the biggest risk of his entire life, probably, and announces that he will be taking a nap. “I’m kind of tired. I want to sleep. I also think I just broke at least a hundred rules of human existence by getting teleported almost 200 dimensions in a second, witnessing it happen and not dying.”

Kazama is silent for a moment. With his eyes already closed, Hwoarang can only hear the hushed movement and footsteps across the wood floor. “If you are purely of and tethered to this dimension as you say you are, then yes, that is quite the strain.”

“Mhm.”

“And it is unlikely you could exist in your current form here if you were not, as you put it, alive.”

“Mm,” Hwoarang mumbles, already mostly asleep. His fingers curl loosely around the gun tucked into his pants.

Kazama gazes at Hwoarang for a few more moments, amusement curling his lips. He turns back around to explore the place. Outside, as the rest of the city starts to wake, he watches the sunrise. His thousand-dimension stare swallows up the golden, honeyed light, ravenous.

* * *

There are many steps involved for any business or prospectors interested in either starting up an interdimensional delivery business, or integrating such practices into their existing structure. As it goes with basically any non-government-owned entity out there, the procedure is long, bureaucratic and so slow that people may feel as though they are moving backward in the process, and never forward.

In general, the main concern of the Milky Way Galaxy First Plane Trade Unions and the All-Possible-Existing-Galaxies Federation (commonly referred to as United Galaxies) groups is the universe’s natural tendencies toward entropy. And also, for some reason, most sentient lifeforms also have natural tendencies toward entropy, or at least causing it through other means.

According to undisclosed sources, the rapid increase of interdimensional travel frequency—even with safety regulations in place—means that the fabric of the universe is now more than ever, a lot like a brand new colored garment being put through the hot wash cycle with uncolored garments.

“That is a decent analogy, yes,” Kazama says, looking over the back of the receipt where Hwoarang has started doodling in between his notes. He is only half paying attention, and blurts out the first thing that makes sense in his head; apparently his laundry analogy makes Kazama think he knows what Kazama is talking about. 

He scribbles with a pen on its last dredges of ink: _Entropy = evil. Dimensional integrity = not so evil???_

Indeed, Kazama continues to explain in words Hwoarang thinks should not even exist in the human realm, the weave of the universe is potent, but fraying and bleeding its essence past the boundary of non-universes and meta-universes and anti-universes. This is simply because the amount of activity it is experiencing on a grand scale, other than the movement, birth and death of its usual celestial bodies, is driven off of a concept the universe doesn’t understand.

“Time, for example,” Kazama says. “Time and money are things the universe does not understand.”

“You’re telling me that capitalism is causing the universe to collapse upon itself or something.”

Kazama makes a considering noise. “Yes, actually, if you wanted to simplify it that much.”

“I am very capable,” Hwoarang says, ignoring Kazama’s raised eyebrow as he rolls from his stomach onto his back, tapping away at a burner phone. He sets it down, picks the receipt filled with mostly illegible notes and digs the dull point of the pen into his head, trying to get rid of the constant itch without scratching it. “But I am not capable of dismantling capitalism. I’m not some weird interdimensional being that can survive without physical sustenance like you are.”

The itch at his temple intensifies. Slowly it grows more irritating, and the longer he ignores it, the more it morphs into blooming pain.

“Can you _stop_ that?” he all but exclaims at Kazama, who seems to be indulging his habit of overthinking things while staring off into the distance. 

Kazama gives him a confused look before something like recognition flickers in his eyes. He stares intently at Hwoarang for a few long moments, concentrating on something. Slowly but surely, the pain recedes until it is but a mostly-ignorable itch at Hwoarang’s temple again. He scratches at it irritably, out of spite.

“Does it hurt?” Kazama asks.

“Do I have two legs?” Hwoarang retorts. “Of course it does! Stop thinking, please, for once in your life.”

Kazama pushes himself off the window sill where he had been watching the city skies. “You seem pretty sensitive to anything that tries to probe into your head. I was trying to detect any interdimensional activity outside the launching pad you mentioned, and I’m not saying that we should dismantle capitalism as per your suggestion, but it would be worth looking into whether anyone is violating the agreements set forth by the United Galaxies. The whole point of ordering from Dongwoon’s was to get an idea of the kinds of travel and consistency of other institutions. ”

It is Hwoarang’s turn to think, although he is mostly confused. “Why the hell do you even care about this? I don’t think the 223rd would be impacted so severely by whatever is going on over here.”

Kazama gives him a look. “I _do_ have an occupation, you know, and the place you broke into on the 223rd is only a stop between larger jumps. My job isn’t just warping randomly between dimensions like you think it is. Learning to avoid any wormholes and aberrations in the space-time continuum is just part of good business practices.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Hwoarang says faintly, “do I even want to know who or what you work for?”

“Probably not,” Kazama shrugs. He shifts his position, leaning his other shoulder on the wall. His shadow splits into three long, jagged shapes, punctured through the middle with numerous holes shaped like eyes. Though they are pupilless, irisless, Hwoarang still feels as though all hundreds of them are staring right into him. “But you will find out, sooner or later.”

* * *

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Hwoarang shifts uncomfortably in the suit Kazama had presented him earlier. The dark fabric is tailored perfectly to his measurements, which makes him feel a little creeped out and worried. Kazama has not killed him in his sleep, even though the possibility of it sometimes has Hwoarang waking up throughout the night. In fact, the other man is rather pleasant in his exchanges, if not a little too smart for Hwoarang’s liking.

“Tell me again,” he says, mouth dry, “Why am I dressed in this exactly?”

“I have a meeting with someone from the 55th Dimension Security Division,” Kazama replies as though he is discussing the weather. He adjusts his tie and helps Hwoarang with his, the dark red fabric sliding easily between and around his fingers. Hwoarang stares at them, mesmerized at how they’ve solidified into unmoving tattoos, giving off the appearance of intricate black thread. “I figured with your innate ability to withstand interdimensional travel, along with all we’ve discussed, you’d be a good asset to have.”

Hwoarang makes an offended noise, trying to pull away sharply before Kazama reels him in again. The warm hands on his shoulders press down firmly, clearly stating: _stay still._ “I am not an _asset_.”

Kazama finishes with the tie and adjusts Hwoarang’s collar. The fabric is far too stiff for his own tastes, and he doesn’t look _terrible_ in a suit, he just doesn’t feel as natural as Kazama Jin looks.

“To me, no you are not, but you will need to act the part in front of these people. As far as they are concerned, you are simply someone who works for my company. If you’d like, you could call yourself my bodyguard. That way you will not need to speak, and can still get the information you need.”

Chill crawls down the length of Hwoarang’s spine the longer he thinks about all the implications of what Kazama is saying. “Okay, just so I don’t lose my head in this super important meeting of yours, can I have a clue to who or what you are?”

“I’m Kazama Jin,” Kazama says easily. “The current CEO of the Mishima Zaibatsu, though our business tends to keep within the range of the 200th dimension and upper echelons. Your dimension has done minimal business with us before, but we are still part of the same Milky Way Galaxy First Plane Trade Unions group.” He pauses for a moment, giving Hwoarang a concerned look. “Are you alright?”

Hwoarang doesn’t stop making a face. He peels away and goes for his gun, maneuvering his blazer around so he can push it under his belt and not have it stick out obviously. He reconsiders and takes it back out, checking the cartridges and bullets just to have something to do. “I don’t think I can get over the fact that I pointed a gun at some very important CEO and I’m not dead.”

“I’d thought you were from a rival company at first,” Kazama admits, “as they have sent assassins before. But your demeanor revealed otherwise.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean,” Hwoarang grumbles, following Kazama out onto the balcony. 

Thankfully, the other man does not seem interested in warping over. He asks Hwoarang to navigate them to a specific building in a district south of the river, handing over a pair of dark sunglasses, a translator’s earpiece and a sleek, matte black card for any necessary purchases. It makes Hwoarang feel an awful lot like he’s been recruited into a business without his knowledge or consent. 

He is used to getting the occasional strange look whenever he is out and about in a delivery outfit, but the scrutiny as he fake escorts Kazama around the city makes the whole of his skin prickle. He has to force himself not to reach up to the itch on his temple multiple times. 

Kazama, on his part, falls into the role so easily Hwoarang has no doubt that he has been housing a super important figure all this time. He has a sort of arrogant stride that is different from how he fights, a casual dismissiveness to each one of his movements that has Hwoarang feeling distantly irritated.

The address turns out to be right at the heart of Gangnam. They enter a building with scanners and metal detectors, forcing Hwoarang to give up his gun and knives for the time being.

“You’ll get them back,” Kazama says at Hwoarang’s discomfited glare. “And it’s not like you can’t defend yourself without them.”

“I thought the whole point of this affair was to protect you.”

“I am capable of fending for myself,” Kazama snorts. 

The elevator’s ascent to the 55th floor hardly feels like anything. Hwoarang looks out the polished glass to the view of the river outside, glimmering in the sunlight. The latticework of the skyscraper falls past in a blur of steel and bright reflections. Hwoarang gets dizzy just from looking down and decides to focus on the display of red numbers.

The doors slide apart to reveal someone already waiting for them. Hwoarang follows Kazama out uneasily, tension already coiling in his shoulders.

“Nina,” Kazama says. “Thank you for arriving on such short notice.”

The woman, or at least the appearance of a woman, gives a curt nod. She glances at Hwoarang, speaking in a voice that has an obviously artificial humanity modulated into it. Clearly from wherever Kazama is from, he is the only one capable of adjusting to the dimensions as naturally as he does. If Hwoarang stares hard enough, he can see a barest flicker in the human image Nina has overlaid over her form. Sometimes the way her blonde hair shifts in the air just a tad too unnaturally. “Is this the acquaintance you mentioned?”

“Yes, he is.” Kazama turns to Hwoarang, nodding slightly. “This is Nina, my main assistant back at the Zaibatsu. She handles a lot of our intel and is an expert in decryption.”

“Okay,” Hwoarang says, glancing between the two of them and feeling underdressed for some reason. “So I let you two do the talking, and I can just look menacing in the background?”

“Do not speak unless you are given permission to,” Nina says sternly, but Kazama waves her off.

“You shouldn’t need to speak,” he tells Hwoarang quietly as they’re ushered into the meeting room. “But if you need to, you can just whisper to me.”

For the most part, Hwoarang does not understand a single thing that the people in the meeting are discussing.

There appear to be people from dimensions all over, which makes sense, considering this is a meeting for many concerned with security within the 55th dimension on the first plane. But still. Hwoarang notes many of them, like Nina, have hologram overlays to mimic the appearance of whatever the people of the current dimension look like.

The discussion, complete with both a two-dimensional, three-dimensional and four-dimensional slideshow presentation covers topics such as the economic and security trends between dimensions with an aggressive level of trade, and those without. Other topics include the different innovative technology and safety protocols companies have installed to ensure they don’t tear apart dimensional integrity _too_ much.

Some other CEOs and the like present their findings with aberrations and how clearly, _their_ business practices follow all the best interests of the United Galaxies.

After half an hour or so, Hwoarang decides to stop listening entirely.

Interestingly enough, Kazama makes no effort to say much during the meeting. He looks attentive, taking notes in a fine, neat scrawl Hwoarang cannot recognize. When it is time for representatives from the Mishima Zaibatsu to present, Nina goes over most of the details. All the visuals and analytics go straight over Hwoarang’s head, but he garners that Kazama works mainly with manufacturing machines and lethal objects.

The meeting goes on. His forehead itches again. Hwoarang, in all his valiant efforts to stay still, ends up digging his nails into skin so hard he can feel blood drying by the time the room lights come back on.

“Nina, forward all the information to me when you have the time,” Kazama says over the chatter once the meeting is dismissed. “There wasn’t too much relevant information, but it’ll be good to go over just in case there are any patterns.”

“Of course,” Nina says. “Will you be retiring to the quarters provided by the trade union?”

Kazama looks over at Hwoarang, whose eyes have long since glazed over. “No. Please go on. We have another matter to attend to for the time being.”

Nina bows curtly and walks off, needle-like heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

Kazama turns to him. “You seem unwell.”

“Head hurts,” Hwoarang says. “Didn’t you say that whatever almost-rift I was carrying around was stable?”

“Nina managed to send over some research on this topic,” Kazama says. He pulls gently on Hwoarang’s elbow to lead him out, but Hwoarang shrugs him off. “The spell I attempted on you depends on being able to scramble a specific portion of an object’s physical and metaphysical structure,” Kazama says. “In your case, it’s already too scrambled from your previous… incidents. Instead, your integral structure has reached an irregular state of flux.”

“Well whatever it is,” Hwoarang says. “Make it stop.”

The look in Kazama’s eyes is not exactly gentle, but it does not hold the usual sharpness it normally does. “What is a good thing to eat here? Any good restaurants?”

“Naengmyun,” Hwoarang says immediately, perking up slightly. His head still hurts, but he’ll be damned if he dies again without getting a free meal out of Kazama. “And you are most definitely paying.”

* * *

Throughout the rest of the day, which Hwoarang spends a lot of tailing Kazama as he makes various stops around the city, he observes the way Kazama moves.

To any regular passersby, Kazama would just look like any other sharply dressed businessman on the streets, though perhaps his gait is a tad too confident, almost like he owns the world. Well, Hwoarang thinks wryly, maybe that isn’t too different from all the snobs he has come across before.

From their conversations it is clear Kazama is from beyond the 223rd dimension, which is a lot farther than Hwoarang has ever traveled. He cannot even begin to imagine how warped the worlds must be there, how strange yet similar they must be. 

From the way Kazama carries himself and blends in so naturally, Hwoarang gets the feeling he’s dealing with more than just a human-adjacent being; he is in the company of some sort of creature privy to secrets of the universe, something that can reach into and tear apart the very seams to make himself a home. Something more terrifying than the infinite unknown. Something that devours even the stars.

“You look lost in thought,” Kazama says idly, looking up from a best selling novel he had selected randomly from a bookstore Hwoarang had mentioned. Mountains and countryside pass by them in a lush green blur before the train is swallowed up by tunnel darkness. The train car is unoccupied save for the two of them.

Hwoarang takes a few seconds to pin him down with what he hopes is his most unimpressed glare. “What are you?”

Fortunately, Kazama seems to understand the intent. He pauses, setting his book down on the table between them. “It’s… difficult to explain.”

“We have another two hours before we get to Busan,” Hwoarang says pointedly. “And if you’re going to string me along like this, I think I deserve to know.”

“You’re right,” Kazama says, sighing. “I hadn’t planned on bringing you along, but, well. I did make a mistake I need to take responsibility for, and you’re more capable than you appear at first glance.”

Hwoarang bristles at the insult. “Get to the damned point.”

“If you’re asking me what exactly I am, the easy answer would be that I’m not entirely human, perhaps only half. The other half is rather, well,” he splays his fingers apart on the table as they shift like flickering shadows, clearing thinking of the best way to word his explanation. Faintly, his eyes glow and pulse, a far off thunderstorm. “My father was a creature born of experimentation. To a degree, he controls the flow of time and its relativity across dimensions.

“In simpler terms, he has some amount of power in shaping dimensions as he sees fit. It’s limited, of course, but enough work and influence on his side could mean altering dimensions across the whole of the universe. Likewise, I share some of those abilities.”

“So,” Hwoarang interrupts. “You’re half dimensional-controlling monster in charge of the Mishima Zaibatsu. Why are you trying so hard to pinpoint this irregularity?”

“He’s technically dead,” Kazama says, “my father. Not in the same sense of temporary death that you’ve experienced. His death is a relative thing. He is trying to come back, break through the anti-universe he is sealed in right now.”

  
“O- _kay,_ ” Hwoarang says slowly.

“The fabric of the universe shifting too much would misalign all the points my mother put together to seal his energy,” Kazama explains. “Which is why I’m trying to put an end to it, or at least reduce its effects enough to prevent that outcome. And as we have discussed before, the constant meddling of time and money throughout the universe is undoing a lot of the stability a typical anti-universe requires to remain a separate entity from the rest of the universes.”

Hwoarang’s brain hurts.

Slowly, Kazama reaches out to him. Hwoarang makes no motion to back away, but it feels like his heartbeat ratchets up a million paces, and his breath lodges in his throat.

The touch at his temple is gentle. The edges of the pain he has grown accustomed to lessens slightly, enough that Hwoarang can concentrate on the feeling of warm fingers brushing across his forehead. As though the fiery heat on a white-hot sheet of metal has been dunked in water, the unease that always prickles at the back of his neck all but disappears.

“I think my dimension would suit you,” Kazama finally says, tucking a lock of undyed hair behind Hwoarang’s ear. He keeps his palm cupping Hwoarang’s jaw. “We are a strange people, and none of us are the same, but we are resilient. Perhaps over there you would not find a need to throw yourself into the unknown in a fitful attempt to find purpose.”

Hwoarang swallows. “Can we maybe,” he says, hating that his voice comes out slightly hoarse and tremulous, ”focus on banishing your dad forever, or whatever it is we need to do first? And maybe also get rid of the rift you’ve opened on my head?”

Kazama withdraws his hand. Where his hand had been tingles with static and a coiling, rotting warmth.

“We can certainly do that,” he says, voice a little smug. “I hope you’re prepared to work, then.”

* * *

Hwoarang makes the decision to stock up on a few things. He is used to traveling light, but the idea is that he will be traveling a lot in unknown territory. More unknown than the vast secrets of the universe anyway. He will have to come back every once in a while, just to preserve his sanity and state of physical existence, but he likes to be prepared, or at the very least feel like it. 

Out of curiosity for the places Hwoarang used to frequent, Kazama follows him, blending in easily by turning down the loudness of his presence somehow. He pretends to be interested in the contents of Yuwon’s pawn shop, wandering around while Hwoarang makes his way to the counter.

As Hwoarang pulls out the list of supplies he had written down somewhere, Yuwon gives Hwoarang a strange look. They lean in close, whispering, “Are you guys, you know.” They make a crude gesture with their glowing hands. 

“No,” Hwoarang says immediately. “He’s a business partner. Associate.”

“Have you had your eyes checked recently? Are you telling me that you haven’t even-”

“We are not having this discussion,” Hwoarang says tersely, his voice coming out like flint on steel. It’s a tone he has not used in a long time, and Yuwon flinches at it. “I came to do business with you, Yuwon. Not to have you pry where it’s not wanted.”

Yuwon backs off, holding up both hands placatingly. “I got it, I got it, got it-got it. You’ve enticed me with the smell of money, as always, and I am listening to your every demand intently.”

Hwoarang lists off the supplies he needs, namely weaponry and other illegal things. As it is, Kazama has deep pockets and can most certainly provide basically anything he needs, but Hwoarang doesn’t want that. He has experience with having to scrape by through illegal means, but he had earned all of that on his own.

Yuwon waves at him when he leaves, even winking at Kazama. A foul taste lingers in Hwoarang’s mouth.

It has only been three weeks since Hwoarang started his temporary leave at work. He half-wonders if the noodle house is doing alright without him doing the heavy lifting from this side of the dimension, but he knows that his manager has resources from all across the galaxy.

He sends her an astral correspondence explaining that he will be on leave for an indefinite amount of time. Normal circumstances would end in the termination of his work contract, but Kazama had provided a customized business card, complete with details of the Mishima Zaibatsu, in the same language as the manager’s name.

“She will comply,” Kazama had said. Without a doubt this time, Hwoarang believes him.

So Hwoarang attaches the mental image of the glitching, incomprensible mess along with a request for indefinite leave. He wishes with all his might to send it across to Jeonryeo, who reaches out for the message with a sleepy hand. Their nebulous presence sends a pleasant warmth throughout Hwoarang, like a breeze at the end of summer, to acknowledge the message and pass it along.

[YOU MAY CONTINUE,] Jeonryeo breathes eventually, their voice like the gusts that scatter monsoon rains into a mimicry of scattered ocean tides.

“Thanks,” Hwoarang says, and sighs in relief when he feels Jeonryeo’s presence leave his mind.

With that he concludes his business on the dimension he has called home his entire life. It isn’t like Hwoarang has living relatives who know about him, anyway. The only other people whose lives he had frequented are Baek, who is gone, and those underground. He feels a bit strange in knowing that right now, the only thing tethering him to this place is all mental, rather than physical.

He spends a good portion of an hour simply standing before Baek’s urn, tracing the nameplate over and over with raw fingers. Hwoarang stares at the image of Baek’s stern, kind smile, trying to burn the image right into his brain. He knows that he will not be leaving this place for good, at least not for a long while, but he doesn’t want to forget.

“Do you remember,” he starts quietly, “when you told me that all the mistakes I made couldn’t change the world, and that I shouldn’t worry too much about that?” Hwoarang doesn’t look up, where Kazama is surely watching him past all the rows of glass, clay and ash. “I think, father, that I’ve gotten myself into a situation even you couldn’t imagine.”

Hwoarang steps back from the nameplate enough that he can bow, almost hitting his head on the glass in the process. He closes his eyes, remembering cold fingers holding onto him tight; pulling him up and up, up and out of the hot-cold-burning-freezing-ecstasy-purgatory stasis of the cruel, unending universe. Remembers opening his eyes to the world and being overwhelmed to the point of tears.

“I’ll be back soon, father. Probably.”

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Noise and heat and dozens of colors swim before his eyes, forming a picture that looks like teeth and the web of the universe unraveling into starry thread, trying to swallow him whole. Hwoarang is shivering, wracked with tremors and a thousand different sensations he doesn’t understand, cannot understand.

“Hwoarang,” Baek calls out to him, his hand a warm, steady pressure on his back. “Look at me, Hwoarang,” Baek says again, patiently. He wraps the heavy blanket a little more firmly around his body, taking Hwoarang’s icy hands into his own. “Can you hear me okay?”

WIth great effort, Hwoarang turns his head toward Baek’s voice and opens his eyes. He tries to speak but nothing comes out of his mouth, and his chest burns until he remembers he needs to breathe. 

The last he remembers is the thrill of a fight, searing hot lead in his body dragging him down and down. Laughter and screams, echoing in the distance as he’s shucked out to the unknown to die. And even as his whole being had unspooled into smoke, the fiery anger in his chest continued to burn. Then nothing, then everything.

“I’m going to kill them,” he gasps, eyes blazing even through tears, teeth chattering. “I’m going to find every last one of them and-” He jerks to the side, collapsing on his hands as he retches. Nothing comes out, but it feels like everything inside is on the verge of clawing out of his body. His vision swims with sparks and tendrils of darkness trying to pull him back under.

“Half of them are dead already, Hwoarang,” Baek sighs, rubbing his back. He pats it a few times as Hwoarang’s breaths even out. “The other half are in custody. Let’s get you home, hm?”

They are by the river. Hwoarang looks across to see slivers of neon spilling across the surface, broken by ferries and muddling with the bridge lights. He stumbles onto his feet. Or at least, he tries to, shoulders aching as Baek supports his weight and pulls him upright. The whole of his body does everything it can not to cooperate with him, but eventually he finds the familiar rhythm of walking after almost rolling his ankles multiple times.

He leans heavily on Baek as they slowly make their way back home, trying not to give into the urge to run himself into a wall and beat all the sensations out of his skin and head.

“How long has it been?” he asks, afraid to hear the answer. Hwoarang looks up and Baek and sees, truly sees, how weary his master looks. Unkempt, aged, haggard like he hasn’t slept in days. Worry lines the corners of his mouth, marking the wrinkles at his eyes with something severe and unlike his usual calm smiles.

Baek’s fingers catch on his hair, trying to soothe the wet tangles. His voice is steady because it needs to be. He knows it needs to be, for Hwoarang, and Hwoarang feels sad and a hundred times another emotion too large for his body. “You were gone for over two weeks.”

Baek had been searching for him for more than two weeks.

He had been _dead_ for over two weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, feeling nothing but shame now. Baek has warned him countless times to stay out of trouble, drilling him to exhaustion during the day just so he wouldn’t crawl out searching for another way to burn himself at night. All the nova-hot anger that usually drives him feels like a foreign chill in his bones.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Hwoarang,” Baek says, and he reaches up to pat Hwoarang on the face before the scene blurs, scattering into thousands of tiny, starry grains that slip through his fingers.

Darkness stretches on endlessly. Hwoarang looks down at his feet to see that he is standing on a hill of ashes. He almost loses his footing on the loose, shifting grey. Something hard bumps against his foot. A skull, a ribcage, ten skeletal fingers all reaching out for him-

Hwoarang jolts awake, startled, and stares unseeing at the dark ceiling. It is a few moments before his brain processes that he is lying down. He is in one of his safe spots in Seoul. It is probably some unholy hour in the morning and he is alive and breathing and _grounded_ firmly in this dimension. 

There are no skeletons trying to drag him through the mattress and through earth and matter. Nothing but himself and the pressing inconvenience of conscious thought and existence. 

He expels a harsh breath and sits up. “Damn it all,” he hisses, throwing off the old blanket with a violent motion. He jerks his fingers through his hair, pulling it out of his face and ignoring the sting in his scalp as he tries to catch his breath. Just a dream. Just another dream.

He looks at the window where the blinds have been drawn tightly shut. Still dark. It cannot have been more than a few hours since he’d returned from his last trek across dimensions and crashed immediately onto the couch, but the anxious energy thrumming through him will most definitely not let him go back to sleep. He turns on all the lights in the small apartment, squinting as he brews another pot of ginger tea in preparation to stay up.

Hwoarang spends hours going through forms slowly, over and over, until the sweat soaks through his clothes and leaves smears of moisture. Then he spends a long while dismantling, cleaning and reassembling a number of guns and knives. When Kazama warps into his room to go over their findings from the past couple weeks, he has already been awake for what feels like a whole day.

Kazama’s brows raise. He looks from Hwoarang hunched over on the floor to the clock, where it reads just before noon. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Hwoarang says, fingers covered in gun oil. He doesn't even look up to acknowledge Kazama for a good few moments, too preoccupied with the pistol in his hands. He finishes up and wipes his hands on a rag. When he finally looks up at Kazama, there is a slight tinge of manic energy to his eyes.

Tilting his head, Kazama steps closer, carefully avoiding the various pieces of metal and tools strewn around. “You have a headache.” It isn’t a question.

“No I don’t,” Hwoarang lies, just to be contrary.

“You’ve been getting more of those,” Kazama continues, frowning. “And you look…” He trails off, fixing Hwoarang with a look that can only be critical, concerned or both. “Tired,” he says after a moment, as though he wants to say something else.

“This whole problem is your fault, anyway,” Hwoarang grumbles. He looks down at the mess before him and lets out a long sigh. “Help me clean this up would you? I’m not asking.”

At Kazama’s insistence, the tools are set aside neatly and in order, rather than the messy pile Hwoarang would have left them in until the next time he needed them. After a while it becomes apparent Kazama is just organizing everything in a system that makes sense only to him, so Hwoarang decides to go out and buy something to eat.

He emerges from the basement level stairway, blinking at the sunlight streaming in through the open stairwell. Although he probably does not need to, he has been hopping around different safe locations. It feels like it has been months since he last slept in his own legal-residence bed.

Hwoarang doesn’t bother hiding his yawn as the equally tired convenience store clerk rings up his purchase: four shrimp-flavored rice balls, a bag of chips, two cartons of banana milk, a pack of insanely spicy buldak ramyun for later. Most of it is for himself, of course, but since he is feeling charitable for once, he figures Kazama can have some too.

The nice thing about Kazama is that he usually won’t try to bother Hwoarang with inane conversation while he is eating. The bad thing about it is that he will instead stare at Hwoarang with an expression that borders between blank and pensive. Hwoarang tries to ignore how he’s being stared at as he almost chokes from trying to swallow too much rice at once, but his skin crawls anyways.

“You really should eat better,” Kazama says as Hwoarang sucks the last of the banana milk through a chewed straw. “I’m sure you’re used to traveling so much, but your body requires more rest and sustenance with the distances you have been going. And it isn’t like I can’t pay for any expenses you might accrue.”

Hwoarang angrily sucks at his straw despite there being nothing left in the carton, crushing it and wishing he hadn’t given the second one away. He regrets being nice for once. “I would rather pay for my own things, thanks. And anyway, you didn't come here to talk about my eating habits. Any progress?”

Kazama purses his lips around his straw. The gesture is so oddly human. Taken aback, Hwoarang tries not to stare at how light and shadows bend around the angles and planes of Kazama’s face. It’s just a human appearance; it isn’t what he truly looks like. Hwoarang will be damned if he finds a fake thing like that pretty.

"I've narrowed down a few locations," Kazama says finally. He swills the carton around in slow, small circles like he is holding a wine glass. Hwoarang doesn't manage to dispel the sudden mental image of a champagne flute filled with banana milk, and coughs to disguise his laugh. "Nothing specific, but enough to get a general idea of possible key points to the anti-universe if it comes to it."

"Okay," Hwoarang says in his best _I-don't-know-what-you're-saying-but-you-will-continue-anyway_ sort of voice.

Kazama drums his fingers on the table, a habit that he probably picked up from Hwoarang. Before they had started working together, the man had always been so _still_ and absent in human mannerisms. It feels only a little weird seeing Hwoarang's nervous ticks in someone other than himself. "The stability has weakened significantly in these areas. If you're not careful enough, your existence could be shorn apart. Into two pieces if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, well." He shrugs.

"Simply put," he continues, "there is a lot of… friction between these areas. Without any outside forces they would exist in relative harmony, but they're being forced into proximity of one another and that alone is eroding their structural integrity. There is someone making this happen on purpose, of course."

Though he had read up on some restricted-access information on the nature of universes, non-universes and whatnot, Hwoarang still doesn't understand any of it. He thinks it might be something like the dissonance between two tones only slightly different in pitch. The closer the dissonance, the more fraught the frisson. As the steady push and pull of the tide, the dissonance would smoothen for all of a moment to a single, soulful note, then tear apart again.

Or something.

Kazama smiles like he knows what Hwoarang is thinking. "Something like that."

"Stop spying on my thoughts. That's incredibly rude."

With a one-shouldered shrug, Kazama regards him coolly. "Not my fault your thoughts are so loud. In any case," he says quickly, cutting Hwoarang off from continuing his rude gesture. "I'll most likely be occupied trying to patch up whatever I can and ease out the planal irregularities for a bit."

"Yeah, yeah," Hwoarang says, and sighs deeply. "I'll just, y'know. Do my thing. Sneak around, gather the information you want or whatever even though you would most definitely have an easier time that I would. Are you planning on paying me for this?"

The corner of Kazama's mouth curls upward into a sly taunt. From black to gold to white; a camera flash; a crackling dagger of lightning; shimmering, dizzying starfall—his eyes flash with something dangerous. "You could come work for me in official capacity, if you wanted. As a spy." At Hwoarang's unimpressed stare, he adds with no small measure of smugness, "I'm confident I can draw up a working contract that is pleasing to both of us."

"Just for the record," Hwoarang huffs, fixing Kazama with what he hopes is his best impression of Baek's disapproving raised brow. He then turns to throw out the wrappers of his purportedly sad meal. "I think you'd make a shitty boss."

"Then don't think of me as one," Kazama says. Something is his voice shifts, but Hwoarang can't pick out exactly what it is. "Call me by name. You can do that, can't you?"

"If you're asking me to attempt speaking some multi-dimensional language again-"

"My name is Jin," says the horrible half-human half-abomination, in a voice far too human for something so allegedly terrifying. Hwoarang has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. This is something Kazama has chosen to bare to him; as much as he would like to rely on his reflex to mock, he _does_ know how to read the room. "You can call me that."

Hwoarang turns to look him in the eye and is met with an even, almost eager sort of calm. He isn't clueless to how charged the air has become, and it is also quite evident this is some sort of test. Maybe. Maybe it isn't anything at all.

"Yeah, okay," he says haltingly, hating how his voice catches in his throat. "I'll do that, Jin."

Jin's responding smile is startlingly, plainly genuine. His gaze, though, feels like a sharp edge on the verge of breaking the skin over Hwoarang's throat. It is as blank and endless as the sea of nonexistence Hwoarang can still taste, like residual blood, lingering on the backs of his dulled teeth.

"I'll see you soon, Hwoarang," he says smugly. Then the world distorts as he bends out of existence, leaving Hwoarang to stare morosely at the emptied banana milk carton that could have been, but had not been his.

* * *

Halfway through picking a lock on one of his older safehouses—because dammit, he's really not good at keeping track of things like _keys_ —Hwoarang drops the tools with a loud clatter as a searing wave of pain tears through his head. Sparks and shadow flood his vision, twisting like the dark kelp far offshore, tangling with his limbs and pulling him down. He is only distantly aware of gasping for breath, fingers scratching bloody lines into his head as he sinks to his knees, and sinks and sinks.

When the worst of the pain passes, Hwoarang comes to slumped against the wall, eyes hot with tears. Someone, something is standing in front of him. It looks more like a writhing mass of shadow, shifting between shreds of blinding light as though it cannot decide which form to take. Where there would be two eyes there is a cluster of star-like glow, an endless black hole for a mouth and nothing but the dizzying swirl of a galaxy for a body. But after he blinks a few times the shape condenses into a shape more recognisable.

"Shit, Kazama," he slurs, blinking away the darkness. The web of black and stars falls away from his eyes. Everything looks like a nonsensical blur. His fingers won't stop shaking. "Jin. What the _hell_ was that for."

Jin says something. He must, because there is a noise, but it isn't like anything Hwoarang has heard before. Hwoarang responds in kind, with a sound that he is sure conveys how he is very much in pain right now.

"Sorry," Jin says after a moment, seeming to have pieced together the threads of his human appearance. "I was a bit more urgent in my travels. It wasn't my intention to hurt you." He kneels before Hwoarang, setting his palms gently on Hwoarang's arms. "Are you alright?"

Hwoarang grunts, mainly since his head still hurts too much for a proper response. Warm hands cup his cheeks, tucking some hair behind his ears in a fond, familiar gesture. Like the warmth is chasing away the ice drilling through his head, the pain melts into something lukewarm and bearable.

"Fuck you," Hwoarang says when he eventually regains his bearings. The ringing in his ears dies down to an ignorable degree and his head doesn't feel like it is going to split into two anymore. "That hurt, asshole."

Jin frowns at him. The sad look in his eyes makes Hwoarang's gut sink with a giant pit of unexplainable guilt. "Your headaches have been getting worse."

"No they haven't," Hwoarang says, and rolls back onto his aching knees to resume picking the lock. He squints at the keyhole, then fumbles around for the tools he had dropped. When Jin offers them to him, he snatches them away with a scowl. "Why were you in such a hurry anyway?"

Jin looks about ready to answer Hwoarang's question before he pauses. He watches Hwoarang work for a few seconds, lips twisting, before letting out a deep sigh. Deflecting usually works with Jin, when he's feeling charitable enough to look over Hwoarang's bullshit. This time, though, the sharpness in his gaze lessens none. "Hwoarang. We really do need to talk about this. If you're passing out frequently it'll be especially dangerous during travel. You risk dying without necessary precautions."

"Nothing to talk about," Hwoarang says irritably. He hates talking about dying. "Like you said, you don't know how to deal with it, I don't know how to deal with it. The sooner we can fix whatever it is your father is trying to do, the sooner you can try to fix my head."

He startles in place when he feels Jin's hand on his forehead. "We'll have to look for some sort of remedy. I'm assuming your usual medicines don't work?"

"Even if they did," Hwoarang bites back, jerking his head away. "I can handle it without them." He pointedly ignores Jin as he fiddles with the lockpick. His hands are shaking badly, but he forces himself through the motions anyways. It takes him a lot longer than it usually would, but soon, with a heavy clunk, the lock opens. 

Jin stares at him. "I'm not sure if you're being willfully stupid, or if you're just stupid. You don't simply _deal_ with a rift like that on your person. And besides," he fixes Hwoarang with that same concerned look that makes him feel a little strange. Less of a specimen and more of something significant. "This isn't something I can do alone. I need you at your best."

Hwoarang is stunned at the candid admission. Since he doesn't feel like tripping over words to try and say what he isn't even sure of himself, he stands up and opens the door, hoping Jin gets the hint. 

"I'm gonna, uh," he says when they are both inside. The world is still spinning, but Hwoarang sets his jaw and stands his ground. He jerks his head in the direction of the door again. Truth be told, he is feeling a bit nauseous and doesn't think eating anything is going to help that but, well. Making good life decisions goes against his virtues. "I'm gonna buy a bite to eat. Want anything?"

Jin looks up at him from his leisurely position on the old couch. For some reason, despite all the dust and some probably-unread books stacked up on the coffee table, he looks natural and at home. His expression shifts from layers of concern to one that is perhaps half-resigned, half-relieved. Hwoarang could almost swear that he is _smiling_. "Whatever you're willing to give, Hwoarang," he says. Hwoarang swallows. "I'll take it."

* * *

Usually, Hwoarang is alright at admitting when he has bitten off more than he can chew. More than he had been in the past, at least. Before Baek had passed, he had simply let Hwoarang pile on all the extra work and training, claiming faith in Hwoarang's abilities. 

It had become apparent early on that Hwoarang only ever learned things the hard way. So Baek had simply indulged him.

The first few times it had been Baek bandaging him, helping him relearn how to stand and walk again in the privacy of his hospital room after shattering his thigh against a blunt weapon, teaching him how to use his left hand while his right was out of commission. The next few, well. Hwoarang had died, twice, and Baek had pulled him back up without complaint.

"Hwoarang," he remembers Baek saying. Neither of them had been especially good with words, not with lives spent training and proving through their bodies their worth, their strength and tenacity. The only way they would ever matter.

"Hwoarang, look at me," he had said, sitting at Hwoarang's bedside. Dying once had been fine to deal with. After his second death, Hwoarang had been plagued with night terrors so severe he had to be sedated for a time. Losing oneself to the universe exposes the worst secrets from within: the sheer horror of knowing how little one exists; how truly the deep, cosmic fathoms go; and how terribly, terribly lonely the void is.

"Father," Hwoarang had tried to say, though it came out more like a tired, nasally wheeze.

"As long as I am here," Baek had said firmly. "You can ask me for anything."

"I wan' booze."

"Anything within _reason_ ," Baek had reiterated sternly, his eyes kind and weary. "I care about you, Hwoarang. I don't want to see you hurt. And I'm so," his hands had been warm over Hwoarang's, his grip tight like Hwoarang would disappear again. "I'm so glad you're alive."

And if Hwoarang hadn't already been familiar with the taste of snot and tears, he definitely learned again, lying pathetically in that hospital bed. Now he is the only witness to that scene. The only one who remembers it.

The point is: Hwoarang does his best to honor those words when he can. Does his best to pull himself out of bad habits just because he detests the hopeless, self-important mentality he had spent years building up only to die and die again. As things are now, though, Hwoarang isn't sure how true he can remain to that unsaid promise.

At Jin's urgent summons, Hwoarang follows him yet again through all the webs and tangles of space and dimensional nonsense he sometimes wishes he didn't know about. Life is so much simpler without having to worry about all the different planes of existence.

They are in the lobby of the same black building on the 223rd. Hwoarang's bike is parked just outside, still warm from the journey over. Dressed in expensive, sleek black clothes, Jin paces the ground before him. He is muttering to himself, not entirely in a human language. Hwoarang watches him for a bit, squinting at the sunlight that threatens to throw his forced mental balance into a mosaic of pain. He has grown used to the near-constant headache, fortunately. Or unfortunately, depending on who is asking.

"Jin," he calls out. "I can't fix your shit if you won't tell me what's going on."

Jin's expression is shuttered when he looks Hwoarang's way. It looks conflicted, and Hwoarang is a little uncomfortable with how familiar that sort of face looks. He imagines Baek had seen it at least a few hundreds times on Hwoarang.

"Hwoarang," Jin says curtly.

"Look, you already called me here," Hwoarang says, deciding he will just assume the worst and go with it. He has a gut feeling. "You can't just call me here and then decide that you don't actually want my help after all. What the hell is it?"

Although he doesn't flinch at Hwoarang's accusation, Jin sighs deeply. The motion makes his broad shoulders sag, as though weighed down by thousands of questions and fates.

"I…" he starts, then amends himself. "We need to go seal what we can of the anti-universe. The conditions have worsened far more quickly than I anticipated and require some," Jin sighs. "Immediate action."

"Okay," says Hwoarang. At Jin's apprehensive gaze, he shrugs. "What are we waiting for then? Don't tell me you're chickening out of fighting against your father or something."

"No, it's not that."

Something clicks in Hwoarang's head. Now he just feels irritated. "I'm not scared of dying, Jin."

"You might not… be able to come back," Jin says reluctantly. "Not like before."

Without thinking, Hwoarang reaches up and grabs Jin's cheek, pinching at the skin. "I said," he reiterates, shaking Jin's head forcefully. Those dark eyes track him, filled with something Hwoarang now recognises as fear. "I'm not scared of you or your pissbaby dad. Tell me what I need to do."

Jin closes his eyes, breathes for a few moments. He feels awkward about it, but Hwoarang keeps pinching Jin's cheek for lack of anything better to do.

When Jin opens his eyes, the irises are photon-bright, filled with resolve like steel.

"Okay," he says, and takes Hwoarang's face into his hands. "Here's what we need to do."

Jin explains that due to the nature of anti-universes, he will not be able to keep track of where he exists and doesn't exist once he enters the seal. He can go in and redo the seals himself without a problem; it is getting back in one piece that is the problem.

"I need you to stay outside," Jin says. "And act as a beacon. I will be able to find you."

"That's not weird or unsettling at all," Hwoarang says. "I'm game."

"Whatever you do," Jin continues, still staring right at Hwoarang. He hasn't let go of his face, leaving Hwoarang to fidget uncomfortably in place, unable to look Jin in the eyes for so long. "You must not approach the rift I open. Not even if something happens to me."

"Alright, alright-"

  
"Hwoarang," Jin says urgently. His hands are so warm. His eyes are intense, harsh, almost burning holes into Hwoarang's skin. Hwoarang's heart is stuck in his throat. "You need to promise me."

"I promise," Hwoarang lies through his teeth, and Jin kisses him.

* * *

Jin first warps them through a series of dimensional stops. He keeps asking Hwoarang, much to his chagrin, about how he is feeling, whether his head is hurting. Hwoarang gets it, but it isn't as though the concern is going to magically cure him of his brain-melting migraines in the first place.

He doesn't even know how far they travel. He stops counting after they pass somewhere around 800 dimensions, and Jin still pulls him along a long way after that. 

Even the stars are starting to look a little sparse. Hwoarang gets the distinct feeling that everything around him is not so much an absence of stars as much as it is a graveyard of them. The HUD in his helmet has long since grown quiet, unable to parse any of the data from its sensors. As they pass through the ends of time and space, Hwoarang does nothing but close his eyes and hold on tight to the constant heat of Jin's hand.

Once Jin deems it far enough, he asks Hwoarang to start driving his bike in a certain direction. Best to proceed slowly, he claims, and the bike can maneuver them accurately enough. He continues into the expanse of the unknown until he feels like he might start to go insane just from being alone with his thoughts and well, some inexplicably hellish creature behind his back.

_We're here,_ Jin says. When Hwoarang opens his eyes, he sees nothing. There is no reflection of light or time streams anywhere, making the grey polish of his motorbike look matte and cold.

"Alright," Hwoarang says as Jin dismounts, floating in the void. His hands are stained black again, probably dripping with curses, though Hwoarang cannot see anything else right now. "I'll, uh. I'll be here."

Jin tears into the void, claws stripping the nothingness into _something_. It's hard for Hwoarang to really comprehend what he is seeing, but Jin's human form dissolves into a blurry frenzy of cosmos and carves out a jagged line through the space. There is no way Hwoarang should hear anything, not out here, but it still feels like there is some ghastly thing screaming right into his ear.

Glimmering smoke froths around the line which slowly peels open to reveal a red maw. Of course, what he sees is only a simulation of what he might see. It is impossible for his brain to comprehend anything that's happening right now, and he only has what little a mortal imagination can offer him. Hwoarang thinks the shape might turn to look at him, blinking millions of eyes like a galaxy reflected over the sea, but before he can process this information it is gone, vanished into the gaping gullet of the universe.

Every hair on his arms stands on end and his skin prickles like there is a knife held just above his spine. But Hwoarang straightens his back, takes deep breaths and waits.

* * *

After that, he doesn't remember much. Nothing but reaching out to take Jin's shaking, bloody hand/star/cosmic being/void-horror mess and pull it out of the nova-bright, scalding chaos. Nothing but the splitting pain in his head and his vision exploding into stars and the blood running hot from his nose. He cannot see anything. He sees everything.

Red laughter consumes him whole.

* * *

Hwoarang is disappointed when he wakes up again. Largely because he hasn't slept so well in a long time, and also because he feels strange in its own skin.

  
He blinks up at the ceiling, not recognising the pattern. His right eye is covered with something, as he discovers when trying to rub the sleep out of it. Instead, the soft impact makes him curl up in bewildered pain.

Jin is at his bedside immediately. "Hwoarang," he says, and he has absolutely no right to sound so relieved and grateful. 

"Hell," Hwoarang groans. "How much beer did I have, I feel so awful."

Eventually he uncurls and tries sitting up. His body is a little stiff, but there doesn't seem to be anything broken or sprained. Hwoarang takes inventory of his limbs and again reaches up to press against his head, where the bandaging is thick and insistent around his eye.

"What is this."

"You were… injured," Jin says. The tone of his voice makes it clear that he is feeling incredibly guilty. "You pulled me out of the seal and, well. I believe the rift in your head imploded from such close proximity to the flux of an anti-universe. It took out your right eye."

"Don't," Hwoarang holds up a finger, prodding around the bandages with his other hand. Obediently, Jin shuts his mouth. "I can feel you about to apologise, asshole. Stop that."

He takes the time to look around the room. It has the same harsh minimalism as the room on the 223rd dimension, but there is more color and light. It looks almost like a bedroom filled with perfectly-cut furniture and pristine bedsheets. He looks down at the bed, then to where Jin sits.

Hwoarang blinks away the last vestiges of sleep. "This is your room."

Jin's lips quirk upward humorlessly. "One of my guest rooms, yes."

"What dimension are we in?"

"�̷͉̎̽̈́͂�̶̳̝͔͚̯̗͙̰̥̣̓͂̓̊̒̎̑̿̔͒̈́̏̄̋͠͝�̶̱̳̱͖̱̼͉̭̱̮̯̱͇͕̞͉̏̃̀̇̔̑̐͒̕͠͝�̷̡̧̬͚̥̝̦̠̰̘͔͈̭̥̘̈̈́͊̽̍͗̽̉̒͆̆͜ͅ," says Jin.

"Right. Okay."

"You promised me you would stay away," Jin says after a moment of pensive silence. When Hwoarang opens his mouth to argue, he raises a hand to press against Hwoarang's forehead. "I should have known better, but nevertheless, I am grateful."

"Huh," Hwoarang says intelligently.

"How do you feel?"

He scratches at his head. There is no headache, none of the pain that has lingered at the edge of his mind for the past however long it has been. Feeling so clear headed for once makes Hwoarang feel…

"Strange," he says. "Head doesn't hurt anymore. But I'm seeing weird things." He reaches up to touch his eye. Where he would normally feel the firm give of an eyeball, he feels nothing beyond the bandages.

Jin smiles again, another empty gesture. "You don't have an eye there anymore. Not a human one, at least."

"Not a human one," Hwoarang echoes.

  
"Nina claims the trauma made irreversible changes to the way your optics are wired to your brain," Jin says. "In your terms, that portion of your body is tethered to the astral plane. You won't see things as you used to anymore, and it could get overwhelming."

"I mean," Hwoarang says thoughtfully, "I'm not _dead_."

"I'm sorry," Jin sighs, bravado wilting as he bows at Hwoarang's side. He doesn't move when Hwoarang smacks him over the head.

"Did you at least show your father who's boss?"

"Yes. The anti-universe will hold for now."

  
"Then don't worry about it," Hwoarang says easily, and flops onto his back. He closes his eyes. In the distance, he can see glistening threads and terrible blades of time, all sinking through the unwelcoming barrenness of existence. "Though actually, before I go back home. I want some fried chicken. The best you have."

* * *

When Hwoarang is feeling well enough to be bored out of his mind, he asks Jin what he truly looks like. He hasn't taken off the eyepatch, mostly at Jin's behest, and also because he is somewhat apprehensive of what he might see.

Jin makes a face at him. "You won't like what you see."

"You don't know that."

"People don't just look at the unknown and chaos for _enjoyment_ , Hwoarang."

Hwoarang just fixes him with a look. It has been easier to guilt Jin into letting him do things recently, but he isn't taking advantage of it too much. He thinks he might as well air out all the dirty laundry while he can, before he inevitably gets bored of Jin's dimension and wants to go back home. He misses Dongwoon's usual shitty, oily jjajangmyun.

Jin has also offered to let him stay, but. Well. Hwoarang has his limits. And he does keep promises—the ones that matter.

Eventually Jin acquiesces. As Hwoarang removes his specially-made eyepatch, he steps back, awaiting his judgment. And when Hwoarang opens his eyes—

There are so many eyes. So many teeth. There is so much within the nothingness and the cruel eddy of stars that is shaped like a man, and not a man.

Each edge and light-devouring point blurs between red-blue-red-nothing, like a three-dimensional movie without the glasses. Saturated layer after contrasting layer sinks atop one another to fashion a terrible combination of eye-strain and visual migraine. Hwoarang stares until it feels as though his head will tear apart before he averts his eyes. The pain lessens, but only slightly.

Despite the roar in his head, his surroundings are silent save for his heavy breaths and frenetic heartbeat. Jin stands impassively before him, guarded. Now that Hwoarang has had a true glimpse, the mortal form Jin takes is so strange to look at. It is a form too small. It is far too simple, too lacking for the sheer terror lurking behind it. Not nearly enough to contain the pure chaos or order standing before him now.

"Ugh," Hwoarang says eventually, bringing up one hand to press against his right eyelid, where a restless void chills his palm. "Damn, no wonder you cover up by wearing a pretty face like that."

The human appearance of Jin's brow furrows even further. Hwoarang closes his eyes and sees a person-shaped hole in the universe, a maw of unrecognition filled with terrible fangs and cosmic, empty irises. "You don't have to pretend."

Hwoarang shakes his head to disagree and immediately regrets the motion. The world spins around him and Jin catches his elbow to steady him. The laugh that escapes his mouth comes unbidden, startling even himself. His voice sounds strange, detached. He isn't even sure if he is mentally attached to his body right now. 

"Not what I meant, asshole. I've seen worse. You think I'm scared of you?"

Jin goes still at that, almost like he is trying to feign a sense of calm and control. But Hwoarang knows it is a calculated sort of stillness, the kind where Jin waits to see which way the wind blows before deciding what to do next. "That would be the sensible reaction."

Hwoarang snorts. "If you still think I'm sensible, you're touched in the head."

Jin says very carefully, the evenness in his voice clearly forced, "I don't know what you see, nor the extent of it. But I understand, if, well," he suddenly cuts off, sounding almost _nervous_. "Very few have seen what you have. And even less still live to tell the tale."

In spite of himself, and in the face of all the danger and undoing right before him, Hwoarang still rolls his eye to the best of his ability. "Then either you're not doing a great job of killing me, or they were all cowards. C'mon Jin," he says. "It'll take more than you just existing as you are to scare me off."

Jin regards him for a moment. It feels as though he will rebuff Hwoarang for accepting something he clearly doesn't understand, but he does not. His gaze softens slightly, though it is still sad.

"Alright, Hwoarang."

And though he doesn't have any good food to celebrate with, for Hwoarang, it is enough.

* * *

The first thing Hwoarang does when touching back onto the 55th dimension is visit the columbarium. He doesn't have the energy to speak, or think of much either. All he does is stare blankly at Baek's urn and nameplate. The aches in his body feel distant and his head feels light and awash with a sensation of falling.

He invites Yuwon out for drinks, just for the hell of it all. It's been years since he has done so, and he had normally ever done so when something had really been bothering him, so Yuwon accepts the invitation. They sit in comfortable silence, mulling over their existences over a ridiculous amount of fried chicken and beer.

It has been well over a year since that first fateful delivery. Hwoarang tries not to think too much about it. As things are, it'd been difficult to get the delivery driver position in the first place when so much of his life had been spent underground for so long. Some part of him tells him that he had never left in the first place. That without Baek's guiding hand, he is only a lost cause to the chaos.

He gets a reply from his manager, eventually, who is ecstatic to have him back and working full time delivery. The old bike he had been using finally broke down, and she has a new one waiting for him to use. No doubt it'll still be emblazoned with the worst advert vinyl designs ever. He hopes that the security equipment will be an upgrade from the last, but he has learned to keep his expectations lower than low.

Life will be fine. He has his old job back and needs to scramble to make up for the large hole he had burnt through his savings. Somehow Hwoarang will have to find a way to stash all the illegal weaponry he's stocked up on again, or find a way to sell it for more than Yuwon's stingy prices.

He makes a frustrated noise and downs half of another can in one go. His head prickles where human flesh has given way to an amalgamation of space and intradimensional nonsense. Wishing dearly that he could get drunk as he used to, he tugs the eyepatch a little more firmly over the missing eye and sighs for the hundredth time that night.

Mid-way through another chicken wing, sauce smeared all over their chin, Yuwon asks him, "you staying for good?"

Hwoarang leans back in his seat, breathing in the smell of stale sweat and cigarettes in their corner of the bar. With his eye closed, the other remains open to some secrets of the universe, a beautiful, terrible plane of stars and nothingness. Blissfully ignorant of Hwoarang's miserable plight, Yuwon reaches over to steal a piece of honey garlic chicken from his plate.

"Yeah, man," he says. He can feel Jin in the distance, biding his time. No doubt he is waiting at Hwoarang's place, ready to greet him with a sly smile and a wish. "Yeah. I'm finally home."

* * *

_fin._


End file.
